The Heir of the Hill
by Lothithil
Summary: Sequel to 'The Young Rascal From Buckland'. Young Frodo Baggins adjusts to life Under the Hill. Canon, or as close as I can get.
1. Ch 1 Elves and Athelas

**The Heir of the Hill  
Chapter One: Elves and Athelas**

When at last Bilbo and Frodo were ready to set out for Hobbiton, the Bucklanders cheered them off as they drove away in Bilbo's pony-trap. Frodo was relieved that they would be taking the road through Stock by way of the Brandywine Bridge; he had had adventures aplenty with the Bucklebury Ferry and the River. The day was fine and clear, and Bilbo sang songs with Frodo, and taught him the words to the ones he had not heard. Occasionally he would allow that he had made up some of the words himself.

They were rolling down a narrow road, and Bilbo was humming softly to a tune, stopping and repeating lines, as if trying to cipher something from his memory. "I heard that you spent a night in the Old Forest," Bilbo said suddenly, startling Frodo out of a drowsy trance.

"Er... yes, sir." Frodo confessed with a guilty smile. "Uncle Rory was quite annoyed." He assumed Rory had told Bilbo about it, and all the other things Frodo had done. His cheeks reddened and he sat silent until Bilbo poked him in the ribs and laughed.

"You needn't look as though the world has ended! So tell me about it: What did you find?"

Frodo told him about being lost and scared and cold, and though the words he used were simple, they moved Bilbo with the earnestness and passion that this young hobbit possessed. He listened quietly, only speaking to urge Frodo to explain a little more how he felt or what he saw. When he described the old grey man, Bilbo laughed, but did not explain to his young cousin why he was so amused.

"I saw a light, like a star moving through the trees, and that's why I had gone into the Forest. I thought it might be Elves." Frodo chuckled grimly at his own foolishness.

Bilbo poked him in the ribs again. "You won't find any Elves in the Old Forest, at least not at that time of year. It's the Woody End you ought to try, if it is Elves that you desire to see." Bilbo shook the reins to quicken the pony's lagging pace. "They can sometimes be found there, in the spring or the autumn, if you are patient, and they want you to see them." Bilbo laughed. "I have seen them there, and listened to the music of their laughter and speech."

Frodo was enchanted, and listened eagerly as Bilbo told him many things about the Fair Folk that he had seen and heard.

"Of course, I have known more Dwarves than I have Elves, but I have met the Edain, Elrond, who is called Half-elven, the Master of Rivendell." And the older hobbit recalled and described that beautiful valley where once he had visited, with such detail and clarity that it might lie before his eyes at that moment. The road sped beneath them and only a little after the Sun had kissed the western horizon Bilbo halted the pony and turned them down a faint path that led toward a band of trees.

"We'll camp tonight, and arrive in Hobbiton late tomorrow. Hand me that lantern, and come down and lead the pony for me while I find us a good campsite."

The evening passed quickly, and Frodo fell asleep listening to Bilbo speaking softly. Once, in the dark of the night, Frodo half-woke to the sound of a strange voice. He lifted his head slightly, but saw only Bilbo sitting by the fire, and there was much moonlight or starlight lying about their darkened campsite, for the fire had burned down into a glowing bed of embers. Bilbo looked very unusual, sitting there with the shimmering light all around, and seemed to be far more mysterious and interesting than Frodo could have imagined. The sleepy young hobbit closed his eyes and slipped back into his dream.

Next morning, there was a hearty camp-breakfast waiting for Frodo when he woke up, and his cousin Bilbo was in a cheerful mood. They continued their journey, and Bilbo told Frodo the names of the villages they passed and the families of note that lived in them. He also greeted and was waved down by many commoner hobbits that were friendly to Bilbo or at least familiar with the peculiar old Hobbit. This was when Frodo first noticed how strangely folk regarded his cousin. They were friendly to his face, but the sharp-eyed lad noticed the heads shaking and the whispering behind hands that occurred when they passed by. But Frodo was new to this area of the Shire and still young with a touch of conceit, so he thought then that they were whispering about him.

They stopped for lunch at the Ivy Bush Inn, and Bilbo proudly introduced Frodo with, "My nephew, come home from Buckland". Frodo became very shy around all the strange faces, but he tried to be polite and remembered all of the names that he could.

On the road, Bilbo sat laughing to himself as he smoked a pipe. Frodo had been given the reins and was showing his uncle how well he could handle a pony-rig. The road was smooth and the journey pleasant, and as the sun was sinking they rolled through the valley of the Water, and Frodo first saw The Hill and his new home.

Uncle Bilbo took the reins from his limp hands, and clasped his shoulder. "There is Bag End, Frodo. OUR home. Now understand," he said firmly, taking a face stern and commanding, "You aren't living on the other side of the River anymore. You must conduct yourself like a proper Baggins... no more of these Brandybuck shinnannigans," Bilbo smiled broadly at Frodo's alarmed expression. He leaned down a little and added in a stage whisper, "At least not when you can be seen!" Frodo grinned at his uncle, but wondered why Bilbo seemed to be so amused by his own joke.

Bilbo gave Frodo enough time to settle in, but not enough to get homesick. Lessons began the very next week, as Frodo was eager to learn. And learn he did! Quickly and well. If Frodo was pleased by his change of situation, Bilbo was delighted, to have an eager pupil and avid listener, who never tired of songs, poetry or tales, and who loved any word he would impart on the subject of Adventure.

There was reading as well as writing, and arithmatics and ciphering. He also did not limit the boy to Westron speech, but began teaching him also the words that he knew in Elvish, and made the boy copy Elvish script, even when he had no idea what it said.

Bilbo had set aside a room for Frodo's schooling, but they were not often in the room. They took long walks all around the countryside, and Frodo was more often scratching his letters in a sandy pit or muddy soil with a stick than on a parchment with ink and quill. He traced letters on roadsigns with his fingers and spelled words from memory, and Bilbo drilled him with questions as they walked over the Shire's rich lands. When Bilbo decided he was ready, they sat down and learned to scribe, and Bilbo was a firm master, insisting on careful penmanship, so that Frodo's hand was easier to decipher than his own.

"I'm doing you a favour, my lad," he said whenever Frodo would halt to ease the ache in his hand after copying yet another excercise. "You don't want to be like your Uncle Bilbo, writing all cramped and spidery."

So Frodo worked hard to improve, but actually he wanted to be EXACTLY like his marvelous Uncle. Bilbo was apt to abandon school work because the sun was shining 'just so' in the garden, or because the rain was "just too musical to ignore". And Frodo was excused from work in the afternoons of fine days, and he spent the time playing with the other children who lived on or near the Hill.

Frodo had heeded Bilbo's instructions about his 'proper behaviour', though his uncle seemed to discard the advice immediately. One of the first young hobbits he introduced the lad to was the son of Bilbo's gardener. Young Gamgee was eight years old, barely more than a tot, but already lending a hand where he could to his father. They were sent off together often, and Samwise was as earnest in play as he was in work, steadfast and loyal as an old dog. Together, they scoured every inch of Hobbiton and Bywater, playing at slaying dragons and hiding treasure.

That year passed happily, and Frodo learned many things from his uncle, and from old Holman, 'the Gaffer' as he was generally called, though Frodo called him 'Gaffer, sir' and was as polite to him as he would have been to the Mayor himself. He was Samwise's father, and he doted on Frodo and Bilbo both. He allowed Frodo to help him in the garden on fine days when Bilbo was otherwise occupied with his own business. He would pat the lad on his head and comment loudly to any who might be over-hearing, "This boy Frodo is as nice a young hobbit as a body could wish to meet!" Frodo adored him, and might have envied Sam, except that Frodo received much attention from both Bilbo and the Gaffer that he felt too lucky to be jealous.

Not everyone, however, had a welcome for the young exile from Buckland. Bilbo's first cousin Otho Sackville-Baggins and his sour-faced wife Lobelia were not pleased at all, especially after they received an invitation to Bilbo's ninety-nineth Birthday-party, with an additional line at the bottom exclaiming that the party would include the presentation of Frodo Baggins as Bilbo's heir. No, sir, not pleased at all!

"You must forgive your old uncle, Frodo," Bilbo said as he blew on the drying ink of the invitation he had just signed. "Those greedy S.-B's. have been hovering over me like vultures, waiting for me to die and leave them all my goods. This is a bit of a treat for me, but I fear that you will get some small grief from them."

"I don't mind, Bilbo, sir," said Frodo, passing him another invitation, as he was writing them out for his uncle to sign. His script was bold and firm now, and Bilbo thought it was good practice, and it also made the task less onerous.

The party was very successful, and both Bilbo and Frodo were wished well many times that night, and their health toasted together by all, except for the S.-Bs, who 'accidentally' spilled both of their wine glasses at the same moment, just after the toast. Bilbo saw to it that they were served more wine immediately, and they reluctantly repeated the toast and drank their wine, though it seemed to stick in their throats. Bilbo looked as if he wanted to laugh aloud. Instead, he gave a touching speech, welcoming his guests and especially Frodo, and announcing to all that Frodo was henceforth the heir of the Bag End and the future Master of the Hill.

The title of Master was an honourary one, given to the most respectable and wealthy hobbit in the Shire bearing the name of Baggins. It carried no real weight with folk, except in the Family, but generally Master Baggins was consulted on matters involving hobbit politics and ancestery, and his word was usually considered 'the last word'. Bilbo had enjoyed the honour since his father had died, and even though some hobbits felt his Adventures should have disqualified him as Master, no one had the nerve or audacity to say it aloud, and Bilbo was unquestionably the wealthiest Baggins, in the Shire or out of it.

It mattered little to Bilbo, either way. He considered the job a nuisence usually, as it sometimes interrupted his work with Frodo, or the periods of time he spent alone in his study, writing his memoirs. He would have surrendered the title in a heartbeat-- to anyone but Otho. It pleased Bilbo to take gentle revenge for the insult and inconvience that he had been caused fourty years earlier, after he had returned from the Lonely Mountain.

When the party was over and the hosts were bidding their guests good-night, Lobelia and Otho departed, white-faced with supressed anger. Nodding slightly to Bilbo and refusing to acknowledge Frodo at all, they stalked out of the hole. After they closed the door on the last guest, Bilbo and Frodo both broke into laughter.

One day, late in the spring of the second year Frodo had been living at Bag End, Bilbo and he set off on a long stroll, packing camping gear and foodstuffs on a pony, for they were going to spend a few days in the woods south of Hobbiton. Bilbo fancied that it would be likely that they may spot some Elves, as they passed through the Shire on their business beyond the Tower Hills. Frodo was excited, but he had gone on these little walks often enough that he knew not to expect much success. The one time they had encountered any Fair Folk, Frodo had slept through the entire visit, though Bilbo had assured him that the Elves thought he was a fine example of a young hobbit. Frodo was not sure that such a statement could be construed as complimentary, considering the reputation of Elvish humour. He was going to do his best to stay awake this time, and he had been practicing a greeting in the High Elven tongue to impress any Folk they might encounter.

The trip was disasterous. They set up their camp and spent a long chilly night in fruitless watchfulness. On the morning side of the second night a late spring storm came blowing up from the Tookborough Hills, dropping the temperature and pelting the hobbits with sleety rain. They were quickly soaked and chilled to the bone. Bilbo wrapped his shivering nephew in every blanket and cloak they had brought, and set him on the pony, hurrying toward the refuge of the Great Smials nearby.

They were quickly received and revived beside a blazing hearth, and plyed with hot tea and soup until the colour came back into their faces. But on the way home to Hobbiton the next day, Frodo came down with a hacking cough. By the time they were home, he was swooning with fever.

Bilbo laid the child in a bed piled with quilted blankets, and sent Halfast to bring a doctor as soon as could be. Frodo lay in a delirium muttering brokenly, sometimes calling for his mother. Nothing could be done that would bring down the fever, and the violent coughs shook the lad's whole body. Bilbo began to worry earnestly. He sent urgent messages to the Brandywine Bridge and the Sarn Ford, asking that Gandalf should come at once, but he did not know if the old wandering wizard was even nearby. He sat at the bedside and placed cool cloths on the lad's burning brow, and sang or spoke gently, though Frodo did not respond to his voice or wake up.

A firm tapping knock drew him to the door at a sprint, but instead of Gandalf or the Hobbiton doctor, a dark, weather-beaten Man stood upon the doorstep.

Bilbo was annoyed. "Yes? Can I help you? I am very busy..." And he made to close the door on the stranger, but the Man held up a hand quickly and said, "You sent a message to bring Gandalf the Wizard here."

Bilbo froze, and opened the door again. "Yes. And how is that your business?"

The strange man smiled. "I am Aragorn, a Ranger from the North. I am a friend of Gandalf. I have come because Gandalf is not near and cannot be reached swiftly. The message was urgent so I came myself, to offer what aid I can. I am something of a healer."

Bilbo was too desperate to push away anyone who might help his sick nephew. "Please... Forgive me." Bilbo bowed, and Aragorn came inside the Bag End, ducking almost double to fit his tall frame inside the round doorway. "My nephew is very ill. I am afraid for him, and that has made me a bit short."

"You are fortunate that anyone received the message at all, Mr Baggins," Aragorn said, removing his cloak. "Your messenger all but flung the note into the ditch on the far side of Sarn Ford. He did not like being outside of the Shire, even a few feet, and he did not wish to speak to any Big Folk."

Bilbo hung his long cloak on a peg in the hall and led the way to Frodo's room. "I am so relieved that someone has come, that I shall forgive him for now. But if Frodo..." Bilbo's voice caught and he cleared his throat. "Un,... this way..."

Aragorn knelt beside the small bed and laid a hand on the boy's forehead. Frodo mummured softly at the touch, and opened his eyes briefly. Then he coughed dryly and shivered. His face was waxy pale, and covered with a sheen of perspiration. Aragorn glanced sharply at Bilbo and asked, "Where is the nearest stream of fresh water?"

"That would be the Rill that feeds the Bywater pool, down the Hill southward."

"Show me," said Aragorn, and gathered the child in his arms.

"What...what are you doing?"

Aragorn looked sternly at Bilbo, but there was pity and compassion in the steel of that glance. "Your nephew is very sick. I must reduce the fever quickly. Now show me this spring, and bring a blanket of red wool."

"Red? I don't have a red... oh, yes, here is one. Come this way!"

It was dim evening, with remote stars and a thin moon swinging low over the western hills. They moved swiftly, and were nearly invisible in the dark. When they reached the stream, Aragorn laid the child in the chilly water. Frodo gasped with the shock of the cold, and struggled weakly in the man's hands. Aragorn held him firmly for a space of time, then lifted him out and wrapped him tight in the woolen cloth, then carried him quickly back to his bed. The big Man moved quietly, and made no noise as he did this strange deed. No one nearby heard or witnessed a thing.

Frodo was blue-lipped and pale, but his fever was lessened, and his uncle and the man chaffed his hands and feet gently to bring colour back into his face. Then Aragorn asked Bilbo to boil some water.

Bilbo watched the Man as he tended the lad. He steeped dried tree-bark and some sweet-smelling herbs in the hot water, and mixed the brew into a draught that he carefully spooned into Frodo's mouth. He was gentle of word but firm of hand, and his manner calmed Bilbo considerably. Frodo settled gradually into a light sleep, and his cough was less frequent and more productive. His fever had not disappeared, but he no longer burned so fiercely. He woke enough at Aragorn's word to sip the draught periodically, and his cheeks bloomed with colour again.

In spite of the fact that he towered over the hobbits, Aragorn spoke deferently to Bilbo, and sat patiently through the long night next to the sickbed, asking nothing for himself, but watching the little face and singing softly words that Bilbo could not hear clearly enough to understand.

When the morning dawned Frodo's fever had broken, and the Man stayed with him until he woke up, blinking against the bright sunlight that spilled in to his room. He drank some of the thin porridge that Bilbo prepared for him, and then apologized with a cough for spoiling their camping trip. Bilbo tisked at the boy, and fussed at his side until he dropped of into another healing sleep. Bilbo sighed with relief, tucking the covers under the lad's chin.

Aragorn was sitting on the floor beyond the foot of Frodo's bed, where the weak child could not have seen him. Bilbo began to thank him, but the Man shushed him, and guestured that they should leave the room and not wake the patient.

"Let him sleep as much as he wants for a couple of days. Give him draughts of tea made with these leaves and honey." He handed Bilbo a pouch of greenery. "He will be weak for a while, but feed him up well, and he should be back to normal in a fortnight." The man picked up his cloak and turned to leave.

Bilbo blocked the door. "No one enters this house and then leaves without hospitality. Please stay for breakfast at least, my good Man. You must not go off without good memories of the Bag End."

Aragorn accepted the invitation, and Bilbo gratefully prepared him a huge breakfast, then thanked him earnestly for helping. Aragorn refused Bilbo's offer for payment in gold, asking only that Bilbo not speak widely that he had come to him, and that he not mention his name to any other person but Gandalf.

"I am a Ranger, and we are a folk who do our job better when no one knows we are there. I came only because Gandalf could not, or you would never have met me."

"Well, I am glad you did! And you are welcome in the Bag End anytime you wish. If this secret business of yours brings you back this way again, then do please stop in. I have been known to keep a good secret myself, or rather not KNOWN to, if you follow me, and any friend of Gandalf is a friend of Bilbo Baggins!"

When the Hobbiton doctor finally arrived at the door of the Bag End, Bilbo allowed him to check the lad over. He noted that the fever was declining and told Bilbo to give him plenty to drink and to keep him warm. He recommended tea with honey for the lad's cough, and Bilbo did not discuss the events of the evening before. He thanked the doctor and gave him a gold coin for making the long trip. He sat himself next to Frodo, listening to his soft breathing and starting at every catch and cough. The boy's face was a pale circle against the dark red wool. The old hobbit took one of Frodo's hands in his own, and he did not stir for a long time.

Frodo recovered his health in that fortnight, under his uncle's watchful eye. He remembered nothing of his nighttime visitor, and Bilbo kept his promise to the Man to keep his deed secret. Frodo's strength returned also, and as soon as Bilbo permitted it, he was up and about again, quite back to normal. It was summer now, and June was ripening. There was a great celebration on Midsummer's night, and Bilbo allowed Frodo to run off with the other hobbit children to tend the bonfires. Bilbo's anxiety for his nephew faded, and the routine of The Hill returned.

Some days after, a Dwarf came to the Bag End with a message for Bilbo. Frodo was working in his room when his uncle came in chuckling.

"How do you like that? I've just had a note from Balin! Going off on another adventure, the silly old fellow. He will be stopping here for a spell, before going on, he says. Well! Put up that book and come and help me. If we are expecting Dwarves, we had best spend the rest of the day learning cooking arts. Let's see, Balin's favourite is seed cake, if I remember rightly, and beer. Run down the cellar and check the hog's head. We won't want to run out!"

Balin's visit was the next best thing to going on an Adventure himself, thought Frodo, as he served his uncle and their guests tea. Balin was full of enthusiasm and cheer, and he nodded at Bilbo with approval when Frodo bowed low to greet him.

"A fine lad, Bilbo. I see that he will be a great Adventurer one day, just like us!" Balin told Frodo tales of the journey to Lonely Mountain, and Frodo was interested to note the differences in that tale from the one his uncle had told him. But he made no comment about that, and asked eager questions that led to more tales until Bilbo shooed him away kindly so that he and Balin could have a private talk. Frodo rose obediently, and bowed low, vowing service to Balin and his family, as Bilbo had taught him. "A fine lad, just as I said," remarked Balin. "At your service and your family's, too, young Master Baggins."

Bag End could house a fair number, but Balin had a mighty troop of Dwarves with him, so only Balin, Oin and Ori were staying in the guest rooms. The others were billeted on the Hill behind the garden. The folk of Hobbiton stared and marveled at the sight and sound of so many strange folk. "What was that Mad Baggins up to now?" they asked each other, and peeked over the hedges. The Dwarves ignored them and sang their strong music around the open hearth-fire.

Dismissed, Frodo wandered off down the Hill, after making sure the other Dwarves who were travelling with Balin were comfortable and settled in their tents. It was a nice evening, a little cool for late June, but the stars were high and bright, and Frodo let his feet take him through the sleepy village and past the Pool, and on toward the farmlands spread in a lazy circle around Hobbiton.

He became aware after a while that he was being followed. "Come on out, Sam!" Sam stepped out of the bushes and walked up to Frodo, his blush visible even in the fragile starlight. "I was wondering why you were hanging back. Why are you following me?"

"It's my Gaffer, sir. He noted you coming down the Hill, and sent me to shadow you, to make sure you came to no harm, wandering in the dark with so many strange folk about." Sam clearly did not agree with his father's prejudice, but he was an obedient lad, and too honest to lie.

"There is nothing to be concerned about with Balin's folk, Sam, but I am glad you have come," Frodo said. He noticed that Sam was holding something dark in his hands. "What is that you have there, Sam?"

"It's a cloak, sir. My mother made it. Wove it herself, she did, and in your favourite colour, sir. She said I was to see you in it, sir. She saw you wandering down the hill without one, and you just recovering from being sick, and all..."

Frodo wrapped the soft warm cloak around his shoulders. "Thanks, Sam. I shall tell your mother how grateful I am, when I see her tomorrow. It is lovely. How thoughtful she is! I did not realize how chilly the evening had become. Come and walk with me. Bilbo has turned me out of the hole, so let's go look at the stars."

It was very late night or very early morning, depending on which side of the bedroom mat you are standing on, when Frodo came back home. To his suprise, Bilbo and Balin were still in the parlour, talking in low voices. Frodo tried to be extra quiet so as not to disturb them, but Bilbo saw him as he tip-toed past the door.

"Whatever are you up to, Frodo?" asked Bilbo. "Making a late night of it, aren't we?"

"Yes, sir. Just out for a walk with Sam," Frodo answered.

Balin took his pipe out of his mouth and said, "Where did you get that handsome green cloak? I would swear that you were not wearing it when you went out."

"Mrs Gamgee made it for me..." Frodo hastily stifled a yawn.

"You had best get to bed, lad," said Bilbo. "I'll wake you for elevenses. Off with you!"

"Good night, Uncle Bilbo, Master Balin, sir."

"Good Morning!"

When Frodo woke later that day, it was closer to tea-time than elevenses, so he prepared an ample meal for himself. Bilbo and the Dwarves had vanished, and it was after his second cup of tea that Frodo began to grow concerned that his uncle had up and ran off into the Blue again. But his walking stick was still leaning against the wall near the door, and his pipe and handkerchiefs had not been packed away. Also there had been a kettle on the hearth, which Bilbo would not have left burning if he hadn't expected to be back very soon.

Bilbo did return soon, and though he teased Frodo about sleeping so late, he seemed reserved as he drank the tea Frodo made for him. When Frodo asked where Balin and the Dwarves had gone, Bilbo smiled at him and laid one finger along side his nose, and winked. That was all the answer he got, until the journey became history, many years later.


	2. Ch 2 Waggons and Wizards

**The Heir of the Hill**  
**Chapter Two: Waggons and Wizards  
**

It was a breathlessly beautiful day, one of those windless early summer days when the sky is bled out of rain but still reluctant to release the sun. The heavy blue vault overhead sparkled with late passage of lighting, and there was a promise of rainbows if any shaft of sun were permitted. Every thing in the garden was sparkling wet, and the air was washed clean. Frodo stood on the flagged stones in front of Bag End's door, and sniffed mightily at the fresh scent of summer.

He had rather enjoyed these past couple of days, minding the hole while Bilbo was away on his business. It made him feel proud that his uncle trusted him to be on his own. Frodo had worked hard so that Bilbo would find no fault in his conduct, but in truth, it was easy to behave as a 'proper Baggins', now that he was away from all the influences and memories that had made life in Brandy Hall a trial. Frodo was gregarious by nature, and even-tempered, and kind. Most of the Hobbiton folk took him to their hearts, and treated him as if he had always dwelled among them. If he ever did anything outward, it was credited to the Brandybucks, or sometimes to 'Mad Baggins', and Frodo was forgiven.

Frodo took a moment to feel pleased with himself. Two years ago, he had been a reckless youth, looking no further ahead than his next meal or his next beating. Now he was 'Young Mr. Baggins', and he could read (fairly) and write (legibly). Of course, there was still much work to be done, but he marveled that he had accomplished so much in a short span of time, once he had found the desire within himself, and the guidance of his eccentric uncle.

Frodo pulled himself out of his daydream and went about his business for the day. Yesterday, before the rains had come, he had received a message from the postman that some 'outlandish' cargo had arrived for Bilbo from Outside, and the delivery had been delayed by a lame pony. Frodo returned a note to recommend that they wait a day for the rain to come and go, and then he would ride down with another pony and assist. Bilbo had warned him that he was expecting a large awkward package, and placed it in Frodo's hands to receive it. So Frodo walked down to the stable in Bywater to collect the pony he had hired. Soon he was riding eastward, whistling.

The day brightened as the low sky withdrew, and the sun shone down warmly, drying the rain-puddles in the road. Frodo's pony splashed through a few, frisky. 'A little run might straighten him out', thought Frodo, and he urged the playful animal into a canter, and then a full run. It was thrilling to move so fast. Frodo gripped the pony's sides with his legs and leaned into the wind of their passage.

There was more traffic than Frodo would have foresaw on such a day, so he guided the racing pony off of the cart-road and they took to the grass. Frodo knew the lands well by now, having traveled them often on foot, and he avoided the pitfalls and harrowed fields. The pony was sure-footed, and they both enjoyed the run, but Frodo did not want to wear him out too soon. He would be working hard once they reached Rushey.

They slowed down and returned to the road. Frodo dismounted and led the pony to a creek were it could drink, and then rode the remaining miles at a sedate pace. Frodo hummed a song, trying to remember the words.

He arrived in Rushey to discover that the shipment was there, but that the carters had borrowed a draft pony from a local farmer and tried moving the heavy waggon over the rain-softened road, and now it was mired to the axle. Frodo shook his head and chuckled, then guided the pony to be harnessed beside a mournful sorrel so covered with mud it appeared to be made of clay.

Frodo had them reverse the harness, and pull the cart backward toward the firmer soil where the grass grew. Then lending a shoulder, he helped push the cart through the wayside, and they were almost lost again when the ground slipped where the rain had not dried up. But they got back on the road, and though they were all mud-spattered and out of breath, they cheered and took off for Hobbiton, keen to complete the journey and locate the nearest pint and pipe.

The rest of the trip was easy, except for the long up-Hill climb to the Bag End. Frodo was as spent as the carters after helping to push the waggon, and wrestling it through the garden gate to the place where Bilbo had instructed Frodo to settle it. He paid the carters and invited them to come in for tea, but they declined politely, having a mind for ale at the Green Dragon.

Curious, he peeked under the oiled tarpaulin, and found many stout wooden boxes with the Elvish rune 'parma' stamped upon them. "No wonder they are so heavy," thought Frodo. "Crates of books! I wonder if they are from Rivendell." He chuckled with anticipation.

Frodo was shucking his mud-caked jacket and walking on the garden path toward the rear entrance of the Bag End, when he heard voices coming from near the front gate. He paused to listen.

"Mr. Baggins has gone out, I tell you, sir! He ain't home, and I dunno when he'll be back." Frodo heard Samwise say to someone. But Sam's voice, usually courteous and friendly, sounded rather defensive and a little scared.

A warm, deep voice spoke soothingly in answer. "When Mr. Baggins returns, can you give him a message that I was here? I am sorry to have missed him, for it will be a while before I will be able to visit again." Something about that voice tickled Frodo's memory, and he came round the corner of the house, brushing at his soiled tunic, to see who the visitor was.

A tall thin man was standing outside the gate, and little Samwise was inside, peering up at him over the hedge he had been trimming. The man was dressed in grey robes, with a grey cloak over his broad shoulders. He was very old, but his voice was lively, and Frodo could see a spark in his eye when the man looked up and saw him coming. He was wearing a silver scarf looped round his neck and under his long white beard, and he held in his hands a blue hat with a wide brim and a staff of knobbly wood.

"Mr. Frodo, sir! You're back!" said Sam. "I was just telling this strange... er, this here gentleman that Mr. Bilbo was not home, sir."

"I did not say that I was looking for Mr. Bilbo, my good hobbit. I said I was looking for Mr. Baggins. And this is he, so I see." The old man bowed deeply, a smile lifting his beard. "Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo Baggins."

"I am at your service, sir." Frodo bowed, courtly in spite of the road stains on his garments. He liked the old man instantly, as if he had known him all his life. "Won't you come in for some tea?"

"Delighted." Sam opened the gate and said not another word, though he eyed the old man suspiciously.

Frodo pushed open the round door and stood aside. "Thank you, Sam. Would you run in and set the kettle on for me? I need to get out of these clothes. Come in, sir. Would you care to wait in the parlour? I will only be a moment."

Frodo hurried to his bath and made a good job of removing the bits of the East Road that he had brought home with him. When he came into the parlour, Samwise was serving the guest tea, and laughing.

"I am a perfect ninnyhammer, sir, you'll forgive me. It was just with Mr. Bilbo gone and Mr. Frodo away, well... I wasn't expecting visitors." He handed a cup to Frodo, and set a tray at his hand laden with cakes.

"Thank you, Sam. You have saved me!" Frodo drank his tea and sighed. He smiled at the old man. "What a day! I am sorry I was not here when you arrived, but as Sam said, I was not expecting any guests. Are you not here looking for Bilbo?" Sam excused himself to the kitchen, and Frodo smelled fresh bread.

"Well, actually, yes... and no. I came originally to see him, but I am pleased to see you."

"Thank you! I wish I could know your name, sir, for I know that I should, but I cannot recall that I have ever learned it. But I have seen you before, haven't I?" Frodo offered him the largest tea-cake.

"My name is Gandalf, and you are older now than when I saw you last, and much less cold and frightened."

"The Old Forest!" Frodo remembered now! His cheeks flamed a bit, and he stood and bowed deeply. "I never got to thank you properly."

"Your Uncle Rorimac has repaid me already, by heeding my advice. I see you are well, and taking good care of Bilbo. Did you get his waggon safely here from Rushey?"

Frodo started. "How did you know about that?"

Gandalf smiled. "I passed that way earlier today, and you passed me on your galloping pony. I am glad that you were watching the road instead of me, but if you had ridden slower, I might have met you sooner. But perhaps it is better so, for if you had, then probably you would not be here now, but pulling a cart out of the mud as evening fell, and I would still be at the gate, arguing with your gardener.

"Now, Young Mr. Baggins, why am I here to see you?" Gandalf asked, sitting back in his chair and looking at Frodo over his folded hands.

There was a silence as Frodo gazed at him, puzzled. "I don't know, sir."

"Certainly you do! Think about it for a minute, while I light up a pipe. Have you any Old Toby? I do miss your fine Southfarthing pipe-weed when I am out in the wild." Sam came in and filled their tea-kettle, and fetched a burning match for Gandalf to light his pipe. "Thank you, Master Gamgee. Now, Frodo, what do you think?" he said the last word with a slight emphasis.

Frodo thought for a moment. He felt like he did when Bilbo asked him a question in the voice he used when Frodo should already know the answer. He attacked the question like a riddle. "You have a message for me from Bilbo?" Frodo half-asked.

"No, I said earlier that I had come to see him, too." Gandalf still smiled, but he leaned forward and looked at Frodo inquiringly.

"Then you must have come from Buckland, and bring word from Uncle Rory."

"Good! That is using your wits." Gandalf exclaimed, pleased. He sat back again, puffing. "Your Uncle sends his greetings to you, and to Bilbo. He told me to tell you that you are expected to come to Meriadoc's Birthday party. Here is the invitation." The wizard pulled an envelope out of his sleeve. "Nothing more than that! But I wanted to see how well your mind is working. From all that I have seen and heard, it works very well..."

"Thanks," said Frodo with a grin.

"...But," continued the wizard, "You have a lot still to learn. Later! Let us go into the dinning-room, for Samwise is cooking something that has set my mouth to watering just at the smell of it, and I am very hungry."

ooo

After a fine meal and a long talk with Gandalf, as he lay slumbering in his own bed, warm and comfortable, Frodo had a dream that he long remembered.

He heard a sound like breezes hissing in dry leaves, or like a longing sigh, but long and loud as if the earth grieved. And there was a low humming, the reverberating throb of a gong the size of the sky, and it welled up as if from within his very bones. Movement, and a glimpse of a great plain stretching before him and to all sides, rippling and undulating like a sheet drying in the wind. The sound became almost like music, and while a small part of Frodo's mind felt fear of thing he beheld, the larger part felt only great longing.

The dream stayed with him after he woke, and he mused upon it privately in the soft morning sunlight as he worked in the garden with the Gaffer and Sam.

"You're very quiet today, Mr. Frodo," commented Sam. "Are you feelin' well?"

"Quite well, thank you, Sam. Hand me that spade, would you?"

"Yes, sir. And here are the gladlion sprouts we're puttin' in." Frodo pushed the spade into the soft ground. "It's just that you seem not yourself today, sir." Sam said with concern.

Frodo grunted as he heaved a scoop of earth aside, and then pushed the blade down again. "I dunno, Sam. Maybe I am ready for Bilbo to come home. Talking with Gandalf yesterday has made me think about him a lot." This was true, and Frodo said no more of his thoughts, desiring to keep the memory of the dream fresh in his heart, secret and special.

Sam's eyes sparkled at the mention of Gandalf. He remembered him well, from Bilbo's stories. "Do you think that Mr. Gandalf will be staying on a while, sir? I'd love to hear him tell a tale, so I would. I bet he knows some good ones!"

Frodo smiled at Sam. "Yes, he knows some good ones... and some bad ones, too, I daresay. But I don't know how long he will stay. He said that he was on his way somewhere, and it sounded like an important and mysterious journey."

Sam shivered with excitement, and dropped one of the leafy seedlings he had been about to pass to the Gaffer. His father frowned at him and told him to 'be more careful, ninnyhammer!' Sam worked quietly for a little while, and then edged close to Frodo again.

"Do you think that he will ever show us some of his fireworks, Mr. Frodo? Like the ones Mr. Bilbo tells about?"

"Maybe, Sam... someday."

"You'll be seein' fireworks if ye don't git over here and weed this 'tater patch, Samwise!" growled the Gaffer. Sam grinned at Frodo and obeyed his father. To Mr. Frodo, the Gaffer spoke politely, "Just put some of that rich loam 'round each of these lit'le stalks, sir, and see if they won't bloom up in a fortnight."

Frodo completed his task and then excused himself to go inside and prepare a breakfast for his guest. He had only just swung the whistling kettle off of the hearth when Gandalf appeared.

"Good morning, Frodo! Up early, are you? Ah, my thanks, dear boy." He accepted a steaming cup from him. "You, and your uncle have made my visits here so agreeable that I find it difficult to leave. But I must go, as soon as I have finished this excellent meal."

"Must you hurry away, sir?" asked Frodo, pouring another cup of tea and setting cream and butter on the board with a basket of fresh bread. "I shall miss your company. You make me think when we talk!"

Gandalf laughed gently. "Bilbo will be home in a few days, I should imagine. You'll soon be too busy to miss me. But I shall come back as I can, and you'll see me again before the year turns, like as not."

"Perhaps you can come back for our birthday? You'd be most welcome." Frodo set a plate covered with ham and eggs before the wizard.

"We shall see." Talk was suspended on both sides of the table while immediate business was taken care of. Then as Frodo began to collect the empty dishes, Gandalf spoke again. "I wonder, did your uncle tell much about his adventures with the Dwarves to Erebor?"

"Yes, sir, he has." Frodo set down the platter he had just picked up, a dreamy look in his eyes. "'There And Back Again, A Hobbit's Tale'... he's writing it all down in a book, don't you know?" Frodo cleared the table and set the jar of pipeweed where Gandalf could reach it. He would keep the wizard from his road for as long as he could.

"Ah, yes. His book," Gandalf muttered. He fished around in his robes for his pipe. Frodo fetched it quickly from the hall; it was stuck into the top of the wizard's gnarled thornwood staff. "Well, it is a story worthy of record, though I wonder if the whole tale will ever be known." He looked at Frodo from under his bushy eyebrows, and his glance was keen and thoughtful. Frodo did not know why, but he felt as though the wizard was already far away, even though he was sitting right there in the kitchen in the sunlight.

Once Gandalf had got his pipe lit, he smoked in silence as Frodo tidied the room. He had nearly forgotten Gandalf's apparently idle question when the old man spoke again.

"Did Bilbo ever tell you how he eluded Gollum and infiltrated the Wood-Elves Kingdom?"

"Uh, yes, as I recall, he came across a magic ring... or so he writes in his book. I have never seen it, but even if he had such a thing, he would have had to be very careful and clever to trick an Elf, wouldn't he?" Frodo was smugly proud of his Uncle Bilbo.

Gandalf smiled through a wreath of smoke. "Very careful and clever, indeed."

Frodo had been taking things from the pantry and wrapping them into a calico bundle; a wedge of red cheese, a loaf of bread, and some other small morsels. When Gandalf stood up (careful of the low ceiling) Frodo pressed the parcel into his hands. "Take this with you, Gandalf, sir, for your lunch on the road."

Gandalf made it disappear into a sleeve of his robe. "Thank you, Frodo. I will hurry back when I am able. With luck, I may see Bilbo before he returns home. But, yes, I must go at once. Good-bye, Master Baggins."

As Frodo watched the old grey wizard walk off down the Road, he made a mental note to send Sam after another casket of Old Toby. He had put the remainder of the jar into Gandalf's parcel. He waved, though the dwindling figure did not look back, then he when inside and closed the door.

ooo

When Bilbo returned from his short journey, he greeted his nephew merrily, but Frodo noticed that he seemed preoccupied and withdrawn. Frodo put it down to road-weariness and did not mention it to him, but gave an account of all that had happened in his absence. Bilbo laughed when Frodo told him about the trouble with the waggon, but became sober when he mentioned Gandalf.

Frodo hesitated, seeing his uncle's annoyance. "Did I do ill, Uncle Bilbo? What is the matter?"

"What? Ill? No, no, my boy! You did splendidly. Let's go see what is in the crates."

Frodo helped Bilbo carry in the four boxes of iron-bound wood. They were both huffing before they were finished. "I never thought books could weigh so much!" exclaimed Frodo, wiping his brow.

"Books, indeed! Hand me that pry-bar." Bilbo levered open the lid of one box, revealing a stack of books wrapped in white cloth. But there were only three books in the box. Beneath them, the box was filled with shaved wood, and something shiny glinted inside. Frodo lowered a hand inside the box slowly, and came out with a handful of glittering coins of many denominations. He raised his astonished gaze to meet Bilbo's amused glance.

"The wood-shavings keep the gold from jingling. The Dwarves are clever when they ship valuables. No one in these regions would want to steal a cart-load of books!" Bilbo laughed grimly. "Dain insisted that I be sent the whole of my 14 percent of the profits from the destruction of the Dragon. He sends some every few years, each time by a different courier. He's a crafty old Dwarf, and no mistake!"

"How much is there?" Frodo asked, allowing the coins to sift out of his fingers back into the box. Never had he seen so much wealth in his whole life. He felt suddenly very awkward, and he scrubbed his hands on his trousers; his palms were sweating.

"I've no idea. I never count it. Let's get it stowed away and then see about supper. I am suddenly famished."

Frodo felt as though there were snakes crawling in his stomach. "Bilbo, sir?" Bilbo turned and looked at him questioningly. Frodo swallowed the lump in his throat. "How do you know that you can trust me? I'd never steal from you, sir, but you must know what I used to do in..."

Bilbo interrupted him before he could finish his confession. "That was before, my boy. I trust you completely. I trust you so much that I am going to tell you a secret tonight that I have told to no one... until very recently. No secrets between us, Frodo. But they are not to go any further, mind you. It's mine anyway." Bilbo clapped him on the back. "After supper!"

ooo

Frodo lay sleepless for a long time that night. His mind was jumping with the things that he had learned that evening. He felt a strange sadness, and he could not explain it to himself. When legends and tales are fantastic and far away, they sparkle with wonder and mystery. But the shining gold of Bilbo's dragon's hoard and the simple beauty of the magic ring filled him with a sense of loss; loss of innocent childish dreams, and a sense of dread. But he had received a gift that night to off-set his discomfort; Bilbo had given him trust, and to Frodo that was priceless beyond any treasure or Elvish jewel. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	3. Ch 3 Tea Party and Tree Party

**The Heir of the Hill**  
**Chapter Three: The Tea Party and the Tree Party**

"Otho! Otho Sackville-Baggins! Come here at once!" Lobelia demanded sharply. She was in the kitchen, peering through the sheer lace curtains, her long nose almost touching the glass. "It's that little Brandybuck criminal, swaggering up the road as if he owned it!" Her eyes narrowed in dislike, her face drawn down into bitter lines.

Otho was seated at a table in his study, where he had been making notes carefully in a ledger. He looked up when his wife called him, but he did not rise. He had no desire to see Frodo Baggins. He frowned mightily, muttering to himself, "How did that little river-rat manage to dupe Bilbo into signing adoption documents?" Otho was very disappointed. Frodo Baggins' adoption by his cousin Bilbo had completely ruined Otho's plans to become the Master of the Hill after Bilbo succumbed to a long overdue mortality.

A thought then occurred to Otho, as he heard his wife screeching again down the corridor. He rose and closed the door, thinking quickly. He rolled the idea around in his head as he rubbed at the ink stains on his thumb. He allowed himself a smile at his own cunning. He opened the door and called to his wife, "Lobelia, my dear... why don't we invite our dear little cousin to tea?"

⌂

"Are you sure you are reading it correctly, Bilbo?" asked Frodo for the third time. "An invitation for _**me**_ from Lobelia and Otho? They haven't said three words to me since I came to live in the Bag End."

"I expect Otho is somewhat disappointed that he is no longer my heir—by a trick of unfortunate birth, I might add." Bilbo did not try to hide his amusement; he thought it all a splendid joke. "They will probably try to get on your good side, so that after you become Master of the Hill you will take them into your confidence and give them power and wealth. That is all they have ever been interested in."

"I don't care about being Master. You are the Master of Bag End and you always will be, and I'd rather have tea with a troll than Lobelia! I'll just write a note and tell them I am sick and can't come..."

"I think you should accept the invitation."

"What?" cried Frodo in horror, "Tea, with the S.-Bs! Really, Bilbo!"

"Think on it, lad. Let us say that it will be a lesson in diplomacy."

"A lesson in testing my resistance to poison, most likely! I'd not put it past Lobelia. Her glares are like ice water down the back." Frodo shuddered.

"They would not dare... not in their own home, anyway. Come, Frodo, this will be a chance for some fun! I have a plan..." He whispered into his nephew's tapered ear, and Frodo, in spite of himself, began to grin.

⌂

"Thank you, cousin Lobelia." Frodo said, moving his hand quickly so that she could not pour the scalding liquid on him (again) as she refilled his cup. He forced himself to relax and smile pleasantly. "I _can't_ tell you how delighted I was to receive your invitation." Truer words he had never spoken. He was intensely uncomfortable. Otho was sitting close to him on his right, so close that Frodo could see little beads of sweat rolling down his cousins' neck and staining his collar. Lobelia was fussing around in the kitchen, rattling pans and frequently peering out of the window. Sometimes she would sit down for a few moments on Frodo's other side to watch him drink his tea, as if she thought he would steal cup, spoon and saucer if she blinked.

Lobelia was sitting now, glaring at him with a smile fixed on her face. "You must call me 'Aunt Lobelia', dear Frodo." Frodo thought it likely that she would chip her teeth, grinding them so hard.

"Yes, my boy. You must think on us as your family. Dear Bilbo cannot live forever, you know, and when that unfortunate day arrives, we want you to know who you can turn to… for guidance."

Frodo lowered his eyes, as if looking into his cup, to conceal the disgust he felt at this transparently false affection. Lobelia leaped up suddenly and walked quickly out of the kitchen and down the hall. She came back after a moment with a puzzled look on her face. Otho frowned at her. She shrugged and said, "I thought I heard someone at the door."

Frodo sat up with a jerk, and his cup clattered a little on his saucer. He mumbled an apology and dabbed up the tiny spill with his napkin. Otho was watching him through narrow eyes.

"It must be difficult for you being in Hobbiton, so far away from your Brandybuck relations," Otho said, and Lobelia made an expression as if she smelled something bad. "It must be quite a change, living all alone in the Bag End with just Bilbo for company."

"Actually, it is quite enjoyable." said Frodo.

"No! I mean... no, living with such a famous hero and successful treasure-seeker... one might get the feeling that it would be more fun to travel than to settle down in a cluttered old hole in the Shire, surrounded by cows and turnips all day, instead of fighting trolls and dragons."

"Yes," Lobelia sat down again close to Frodo, her hand closing around Frodo's arm, "Think of the adventure you'll miss, tied down at Bag End. Why, there must be... _hundreds_ of dragon treasures, just waiting for a brave young hobbit to come and claim them."

Frodo gently disengaged himself from her pinching grasp. "Dragon treasure?" he said, as if the thought had never before occurred to him.

"Yes... imagine! Stacks of gold and jewels and... things. All for the taking!" Otho leaned in on his side, a smile twisting on his stiff face.

Frodo looked back and forth between them, and an expression of eager wonder broke in his eyes. "And magic swords, too?"

"Of course! Magic swords and harps of gold what play themselves, a thousand wonders beyond description! A brave traveler like Bilbo would not hesitate... he'd run right out and find it."

"You are right... a courageous and cunning treasure-seeker would never be able to resist such easy wealth. Fire-breathing dragons and trolls made of stone; what are those to the bravest of the brave? And goblins, with their chains and cruel swords of black iron, how could they stand a chance against a sly and treacherous burglar who treads so soft and unseen?" Frodo leaped to his feet. "Thank you, my dear cousins... I mean Aunt Lobelia and Uncle Otho! Thank you for inviting me into your home today and setting my feet on a new path!"

Otho and Lobelia stared at each other in amazement. It was working better than they had planned! "My dear boy... you aren't thinking of..." Otho began hopefully.

"Uncle Otho!" Frodo embraced the stunned hobbit. "For many years I have considered and planned how I would follow in Bilbo's footsteps and become the greatest thief the Shire has ever known! I worked hard to insinuate myself close to him, to gain his confidence and learn his secrets. I am so glad that you were here to talk sense to me!" Frodo half-sobbed, as if overcome with emotion.

"Talk...sense?" Lobelia was confused, and Otho had his mouth hanging open.

"Uh, cough, yes... for now I see... I will _never_ be as brave or clever as Bilbo. I would not survive for an instant in such peril. It is far better for me to stay under the Hill where I am safe, and leave the adventuring to Foolish Tooks and Greedy B-b-brandybucks!" Frodo hugged Lobelia and kissed her on the end of her long sharp nose. He ran straight out of the hole leaving the door wide open, and hurried down the road.

When Frodo reached the end of the row, he sat down heavily on the path, his sides aching. He began to shake, and then the laughter came out, and his eyes were streaming with tears as he rocked back and forth with mirth.

Still chortling, he looked around and said, "You can come out now, Bilbo. No one is looking."

Bilbo appeared suddenly, doubled over in laughter he could no longer hold in. He slipped his hand inside his waistcoat pocket, and came out holding a handkerchief. He wiped his eyes. "You nearly had **me** convinced!" cried Bilbo, laughing harder. "The look on Otho's face...!"

"I just could not take it anymore," gasped Frodo, "I was afraid that I was going to burst out laughing in front of them!" He was holding his ribs, his face red.

"You did very well. Although, you nearly lost it toward the end."

"You did not help me, whispering in my ear the whole while!"

"I thought Lobelia was going to cry. You made our cousins two of the happiest hobbits in the Shire... for a couple of minutes!"

The sat laughing on the ground in the middle of the road until the neighborhood dogs began to bark wildly. Then they helped each other to stand and staggered off toward home, still chuckling merrily as they walked through the village on a soft Shire afternoon.

⌂

Frodo was taking a walk after breakfast one morning, enjoying the fragrance of the air and the way the sun touched softly on his face. He was strolling down the lane toward Bywater, under the long shady boughs of the many trees that grew along that path. He was just about to turn round, having a mind to head back to the Bag End for a second breakfast, when he heard a soft sound with his quick ears. He walked along a little further, and saw Samwise sitting down on the side of the road.

"Hullo, Sam!" called Frodo, waving to his friend. To his consternation, instead of the usually cheerful greeting and warm smile, Samwise turned away from him. Frodo halted awkwardly; Sam was the one person Frodo thought would never reject him. It was a blow to his heart to see the back of his loyal companion. "What's the matter, Sam?"

"Nothing, Mr Frodo! I was... I was just..." To Frodo's dismay, his friend's voice was broken and thick. Frodo put out a hand, and took Sam by the arm. He gently turned him round, and gasped.

"O Sam!" Frodo exclaimed, kneeling swiftly at his side. "What on earth happened?"

Sam had a swollen eye, and the side of his face was darkening with an ugly bruise. He winced when Frodo took out a clean white handkerchief and gently blotted the blood on his split lip.

"Who did this, Sam?" Frodo felt a sudden anger blossom inside his heart. Someone had hurt his friend! Loyal Sam, who never did mischief or foul deed to anyone. "Who did this?" he repeated firmly, when Sam mumbled but did not answer.

"He was cuttin' down the young trees," Sam said miserably, lisping over his puffed lip. "That Ted Sandyman, I tol' him to leave off, that those trees ought not t' be felled, but he swung his axe anyway. So I tossed it into the Pool." Sam grinned a little, wincing. "I'm afraid I didn't give him time to let go of the axe first."

"Sam! You didn't! Did you drown him, then?"

"No, sir. I helped him right out, so I did. He took my hand and gave me his other. The Gaffer is gonna bust when he sees my face." Sam sighed, and climbed to his feet. "I guess I better go home and tell him what I did. I'll be lucky if I don't get another shiner t' match this 'un, for my foolishness."

"The Gaffer won't punish you for protecting the trees, Sam. Come with me and let me take care of that eye."

Frodo took him back to the Hill, and he carefully cleaned up Sam's bloodied face and made him change out of his soiled homespun into one of his own linen shirts. He made Sam hold a cut of marbled beef against his bruised eye, while he made them both up a big meal.

Sam felt strange just sitting there and tried to help, but Frodo gently refused him, telling him firmly to sit and do nothing while he took care of him for a change. That Mr. Frodo would fuss over him so touched Sam's heart, and he felt even more possessive of Frodo after this day.

When Sam had eaten every bite that had been set on his plate, Frodo sat down next to him. He propped his elbow on the table and looked at Sam with an expression that the younger hobbit had never seen on his master's face before. There was mischief and a cunning humour in his eyes, and he had a sly smile on his lips.

"Well, Sam, now it is time to plan our revenge."

⌂

Ted Sandyman had not gone home after his dunking in the Pool. He had lost his father's best axe, and he knew he'd get cuffed for that, and for letting Gamgee's boy get the better of him. He wandered around the valley of the Water, raiding folk's gardens for food, until the sun began to sink, and he reluctantly headed home.

On the path, not far from where he had scuffled with Gamgee, Ted saw something shiny in a tree that grew up near the road. As he came nearer, he saw that it was an axe, not his father's but a newer and better one than he had lost. If he brought it home with him, maybe his da would not take on so, and he would be spared a beating. Eagerly, Ted ran forward, and he laid his hands upon the handle.

"HOOM! HOOOOMMMM!" a loud voice cried as his hands closed upon the haft.

"AAAHHUUUGGGHHH!" cried Ted Sandyman, as the tree suddenly moved and reached toward him with groping branches. He ran away as fast as his blunt feet would carry him, wailing all the way.

The 'tree' began to laugh, and suddenly it felled itself; it came apart into two halves, and Frodo flipped back his green cloak and rubbed his shoulders where Sam had stood, waiting for Sandyman to get close to their trap. "That was very convincing, Sam! I have often wondered what an angry tree would sound like."

Sam was chuckling in delight, no longer feeling any pain from his humiliating morning. He removed the leaves and twiggy branches from his hair and clothes that had been his disguise. "I just thought to myself, 'Sam, if you were a tree, what would you have to say to Ted?', and lawks! if I didn't nearly scare myself, too!"

They walked back toward the Hill and Bagshot Row, Sam with the Gaffer's new axe over his shoulder, grinning because they had won today. Frodo was smiling, too, mostly because Sam had forgotten to call him 'sir' all evening. The two friends wound their way home in the gloaming, singing a merry tune.


	4. Ch 4 An Afternoon in Bag End

**The Heir of the Hill**  
**Chapter 4  
Part 1**: **An afternoon in Bag End**

Frodo turned the last page of the book, his eager eyes bright as they flicked over the page. As the tale wound to its sad ending, as most of the Elven tales do, he expelled a long sigh and closed the volume softly. So much sadness and despair filled the long history of the Elves, and yet they were still so merry, so full of light and joy. Frodo closed his eyes and remembered with delight his first real encounter with the Fair Folk. As clear and sharp as the afternoon sunlight through the garden window the memories came to him...

⌂

After what had happened during the disastrous trip that they had taken together the first year of Frodo's habitation in Bag End, Bilbo had become far more careful, and the next time they went out, the weather was very fine, and they had all the provisions and comforts that could be carried on a pony. Frodo had sat up with his Uncle Bilbo and watched the stars spring out of the velvet sky. They spoke little, listening hopefully for the bell-like laughter on the night wind.

Fortune smiled upon the hobbits that night, and a group of Folk appeared just as Menelvagor was creeping up the horizon to stalk across the sky on his nightly visitation. They did not seem surprised to find Bilbo sitting there, and they jested with the old Hobbit as though they were long friends, gathering around the campfire and sitting cross-legged on the grass. They offered fair words to Frodo, and laughed good-naturedly at his stumbling elvish greetings. They bowed to him anyway, and their laughter entranced him. He sat quietly and listened to their speech, his eyes full of their fair faces and the music of their voices.

They sang songs that night that drifted still through his mind, and though the words were then strange to him, he seemed to 'feel' their meaning; pictures came into his head as he listened, and very quickly he was dozing at his Uncle's feet. But the songs were complete and uninterrupted, like vivid dreams upon first waking.

⌂

Frodo lifted his head with a jerk! He had fallen asleep sitting up at his desk. He stood and stretched, and his thought was that, by the slant of the sunlight and the growling in his stomach, perhaps a spot of tea might be just the thing to perk him up. He wandered down the hall toward the kitchen.

His feet stalled just outside Bilbo's study. His Uncle had gone to Michael Delving earlier that day, but Frodo had heard—or thought that he had heard—a sound coming from Bilbo's room. The door was ajar, so he pushed it slowly open and called hesitantly, "Bilbo? Are you here, sir?"

There was no answer, and the room appeared to be empty. The window was open and golden sunlight was spilling into the cluttered room. Many piles of books lay around, stacked in precarious towers and slotted into the over-full bookcase in every imaginable way. Maps lay half finished, and Bilbo's favourite quill lay upon the desk next to an open ink-bottle. Frodo tisked at the sight and capped the bottle tightly, and placed the quill carefully in the cork block. Bilbo's penknife lay open there, and so Frodo placed it next to the quill. Then stepped back. Frodo knew his uncle hated to have his room tidied after him; he claimed that he could never find anything. It had taken many outbursts to encourage the well-meaning Samwise to avoid the task, but Bilbo had finally impressed on everyone that "his study was 'out-of-bounds' and welcome to remain cluttered and undusted".

Frodo was going to retreat at once, but something caught his eye: a letter half finished lay on the floor. He politely averted his eyes from the text, and bent and picked it up, placing it on the desk and weighting it with the polished stone that he had once given his uncle as a birthday present. He walked out of the room with one last longing glance at the bookshelf. He would have to wait until Bilbo returned to exchange the volume he had just finished reading for a new one.

Frodo arrived in the kitchen to find Samwise busily preparing tea. There were three cups on the board, along with a fresh blackberry tart that made Frodo's mouth water by the very sight. "Is the Gaffer joining us, today, Sam?" asked Frodo, noting the extra cup.

Sam looked up at his master with a queer glance. "No, sir. Is Mr. Bilbo not here? I thought I heard him in his study just now."

"That was just me, Sam. I went in to cap his ink-bottle."

Sam widened his eyes in alarm at the thought of entering the forbidden room. "He's let more dry out than he's emptied, so he has, sir, if you don't mind my saying so." He filled the teapot with steaming water, then spooned fresh leaves into a square of cheesecloth, which he tied deftly with a thread and dropped into the water. Frodo watched him with a smile.

"I wish you would let me tell folks about your clever ideas, Sam. That cheesecloth tea-pouch is a marvelous thing.""Clever ideas? Me, sir? No... that there is my mother's habit, for she doesn't care to get tea-leaves on her tongue, so she says. I always fix it for her this way, I do, sir, and it saves time cleaning up, too." Sam's face was tinged with red, and Frodo let him be, sipping his tea to hide his smile.

They both heard the front door open and close, and Bilbo himself walked into the kitchen, leaning his walking stick against the wall and shedding his cloak. Samwise filled the third cup with tea as Frodo took his uncle's cloak and stick and placed them in the hall. When he returned to the kitchen Bilbo was complimenting Sam on his blackberry tart.

"I could smell the thing all the way to Bywater, and I hopped straight past the Green Dragon to have some while it was still hot!" Sam flushed with pleasure, and they all enjoyed a delightful meal.

After helping Sam clean up ("No, Mr. Frodo, you needn't bother yourself, sir...") Frodo came into Bilbo's study with the book he had finished. Bilbo was at his desk, scratching away on the parchment with his sharpened quill. Frodo placed the book in an empty slot, then pondered his next choice.

"Try the 'Lays of Beleriand', lad. It's on the top shelf... no, there it is on the floor, next to the Valaquenta. I haven't translated that one yet, but I will, someday. Now, off you go, lad. I'm too busy today for any lessons."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Frodo moved to leave the room, but Bilbo's voice stopped him before he pulled the door shut.

"And Frodo... thank you for capping my ink. You are a good lad."

"You are welcome, Bilbo."

**Part 2 : Frodo goes for a walk **

The air was clean and soft, and the early evening was claiming colour from the verdant hills around Hobbiton, leeching the light slowly as the early stars trembled meekly in the velvet air. Frodo drew a deep breath of it, as he paused outside the door debating on whether or not his coat would be warm enough for a long walk. As he pondered this, Samwise came out of the Bag End, a green cloak in his hands.

"You'll be wanting this if you're going out tonight, Mr. Frodo." Sam exclaimed, draping the cloth over Frodo's shoulders. "It is wee soft now, but the vinefloweres are twisted tight shut, and the Gaffer says that means it'll turn chill ere middle-night. Do you want me to walk with you, sir?"

Frodo smiled and slapped Sam on the back in a friendly fashion. "No, thank you Sam. I have an itch to walk alone tonight, if you don't mind. I won't go too far. Good bye!" He set off down the path, leaping the little gate rather than opening it, and walked purposefully down the Road, swinging his arms and singing softly.

Sam watched him until he disappeared into the gathering darkness. Such a dear hobbit was Frodo Baggins, he thought. Sam did not care to listen to what the other folk around Hobbiton sometimes said. He never failed to correct any speaker who suggested that Mr.. Frodo (or Mr.. Bilbo) was odd or out-of-the-way. He'd heard plenty of talk, down in Bywater and up in Tighfield, and it seemed some folk were not completely comfortable with the 'goings-on at the Bag End'.

"Folk got no claim to be mindin' another's business, Sam," his Gaffer said, when Sam had reported the slanders to him. "And that goes for you, too, thickwit!" the Gaffer affectionately ruffled his son's sandy hair. "Now give me a hand with these 'taters..."

Still Sam bristled whenever he heard such talk. Bilbo was amused when he heard about it, and Frodo seemed oblivious to jape or slight. He was unfailingly polite to everyone, even those Sackville-Bagginses who were so terribly rude to him and his uncle. Frodo did not have an un-kind bone in his body, as far as Sam was concerned.

At last, when Frodo was out of sight by twilight and hill, Sam turned back to the Bag End. He planned to get a few chores done while Mr. Frodo was out of the hole.

Mr. Bilbo was still in his study, the door firmly closed. Sam walked softly past, and tidied up the supper dishes and repaired the fire, making sure the kettle was full of water. He brought in more wood for the hearth, and scooped out the old ashes. He went into Frodo's room, knocking even though he knew the young master was out, and he stacked wood in the small grate carefully, ready to light when Frodo returned home that evening.

If he returned before morning, Sam reflected with a sigh. Sometimes Frodo would stay out all night, returning in the grey dawn with leaves stuck to his clothes and grass stains on his trousers. Sam wondered where he went on those long walks, and what he might be doing. Behaviour like this is what set folks talking, so it did!

Sam stripped the linen from the feather bed and replaced it with fresh sheets, laundered just that day. They still smelled of the sun, and of blooming flowers he had planted near the clothes-line last season. He tucked the corners down neatly and fluffed the pillows. Something dropped to the floor. He stooped and picked it up, examining the item closely.

It was a flower, dried and pressed and closed carefully in an envelope of transparent waxed paper. It was very old, and its colour had faded, but its fragrance could still be smelt; a primrose. Frodo had kept it under his pillow. Sam carefully replaced it, wondering what it meant, and who had given it to him.

"None of your business, Samwise Gamgee!" he said to himself, but he could not put it out of his mind.

Soon all the chores were done, and the night fire was banked. Sam grabbed up his cloak and the bag of laundry that he would take home for his sister to clean and mend. Bilbo came out of his study just as Sam was closing the door behind himself.

"Samwise?" Sam paused, poking his head back inside.

"Yes, Mr. Bilbo, sir?"

"Did Frodo go out? I thought he was going to join me tonight for a smoke, but he has not appeared."

"Yes, sir. He went out for a walk at twilight. About went off without his cloak, he did."

Bilbo chuckled. "Gone off to see them again, has he?"

Sam could not control his curiosity. "Gone to see who, sir, if you don't mind my asking?"

Bilbo handed Sam his velvet smoking jacket. The young hobbit helped him slip it on. "The Elves, of course! The lad has gone Elf-crazy!" Bilbo did not sound displeased.

Sam looked at Bilbo, wondering if the old hobbit was jesting with him. "Elves, sir? Here in Hobbiton?"

"Well, no, not _here_," Bilbo selected a pipe from the rack, then stepped outside as Sam held open the door. He seated himself on the bench, and lit the pipe. Sam set aside his burden and sat down on the stones at Bilbo's feet.

"Elves, you said, sir?" prompted Sam eagerly, as Bilbo puffed his pipe and sent a great ring of smoke rolling expertly over the hedge.

"Oh, yes," murmured Bilbo. "They can be found sometimes, walking through the Shire, in the Spring or Autumn. I have taken Frodo to see them a few times, but he always wants more."

"I do love tales about Elves, Mr. Bilbo. The Gaffer, he don't tell such tales." Sam looked at Bilbo so appealingly that the old hobbit laughed, and he spoke to the eager young gardener of the Valley of Rivendell, and the Elves he met there.

⌂

It was deep evening before Samwise finally walked into Bagshot Row #3, and the Gaffer had a solemn look on his face when his youngest son confessed that he had been listening to Mr. Baggins' stories.

"It is not the place of a Gamgee to be giving ear to tales of Elves and Dragons! Cabbages and potatoes are better for you and me. Don't go getting mixed up in the business of your betters, or you'll land in trouble too big for you. Now, go and clean up for supper! You're luck we saved you any, as late as you are!"

Sam obeyed, and while the Gaffer was out talking to Daddy Two-foot, he told his sisters in a whisper the tales Mr. Bilbo had shared with him.

Daisy pursed her lips at her brother, and shook her head. "You are out of your place, Sam Gamgee!" She sat down next to the lantern to sew the button back on Mr. Bilbo's waistcoat.

Marigold sat quietly as Sam told his tale. When he finished speaking, she asked softly, "Where does he go? To see these Elves?" She kept her face turned away from her siblings, washing the dishes in the basin.

"I don't know. Off in the woods of Tuckburough, I imagine, or perhaps in the Bindbale Wood up north." Sam yawned like a cavern; he needed to get some sleep if he was going to get up early enough to cut the grass on the Hill tomorrow and still have time to make a fishing trip. He kissed his sisters goodnight, tweaking Marigold's chin. She hugged her brother with a giggle.

Sam prepared for bed, but sleep would not come. He tossed and turned, imagining sounds in the night, and chasing around phantoms of light in his half-awake mind.

He thought he heard singing. Elves, he thought, and he smiled. But the singing continued, and he woke up fully when he recognized Frodo's voice.

He grabbed his robe and crept out of the hole. The night had gone chilly, indeed. His breath plumed before him, and through the cloud of it he saw frost on the garden, shimmering in the starlight.

The singing was soft, and he followed the sound of it to the end of the row, and saw Mr. Frodo himself walking slowly up the road toward home.

Sam stared in disbelief, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Master Frodo was glowing! Or seemed to be to Sam, with his mind foggy with fatigue. A light like soft moonlight was laid upon him, and he was quietly singing a song in a language Sam could not understand as he strolled home in the deep evening. As he drew close to where Sam stood, he halted.

"Whatever are you doing up at this hour, Sam?" Frodo asked.

Sam blinked, and he saw Frodo standing there quite normal-looking, with an expression of curious amusement on his face.

"I think I am walking in my sleep, Mr. Frodo. I am seeing dreams!"

"Back to bed with you then, Samwise, or we'll never get the lawn done before sunset. I have a craving for fresh fish for dinner tomorrow, and I am not as good a fisherman as you! Get some sleep!" He took the befuddled Sam by the shoulders and turned him gently, pushing him back inside the hole.

Frodo continued up the Hill, the song of the Elves still sweet on his lips.


	5. Ch 5 Young Merry in Hobbiton

**Young Merry in Hobbiton**

_**Author's Note**: This chapter should have been posted before the chapter here listed as Smoke and Thunder. After a brief period, I shall switch the placements so that they are more chronologically correct.  
thnx! --Loth_

**Part One: Merry Learns a Secret **

'What a fantastic day in the Shire,' thought Merry Brandybuck as he sauntered down the Road that wound through the valley of the Water. He always enjoyed walking through the gentle rolling hills and scattered clumps of trees on his way to visit his cousins. Buckland was home, and he sometimes felt uncomfortable in the wide open lands with no Hay or River to protect him. Cousin Frodo did not seem to have any trouble adjusting to the scenery, so Merry swallowed his own anxiety, preferring that as a meal to the one he would have to eat if his friends discovered his unreasonable fear. Brandybuck pride knew no fear!

Merry waved jauntily at the hobbits that he passed, working in their fields or traversing the road past him. He ignored the stares and loud whispers, such things just did not register to him. It was too fine a summer day to worry about prejudice.

Merry had just crossed the Water and was jogging down the Bywater lane when he saw his cousin Bilbo Baggins ahead of him, walking along in the same direction as the young hobbit was running. Merry was about to call out to him, when suddenly hey presto! the old hobbit vanished right before Merry's eyes!

Merry wrenched himself to a stop. He stared in stunned amazement at the spot on the road that no longer contained Bilbo. Standing there, he could then hear sounds of someone approaching from down the road, coming toward him. Harsh voices raised in argument, clumping hoof-beats, and the creak of waggon wheels. Merry dove through the hedgerow to hide himself.

He wriggled beneath the foliage until he could see the road clearly. Lobelia and Otho were riding in a pony-trap, bickering at each other, while their son Lotho sat between them and whined about being hungry. They passed slowly, and Merry sighed with relief as they disappeared. They were without a doubt the most unpleasant and rude hobbits in the entire Shire. It was very difficult for Merry to control his tongue around them when they bad-mouthed Cousin Bilbo. And the things they said about Frodo!

Merry ground his teeth. Frodo had forbidden Merry to defend him, saying that nobody listened to the Sackville- Bagginses anyway, but Merry could see that some did. Frodo could be so innocently forgiving sometimes that Merry wanted to thump him on the head, except that truly he could never raise a hand to his dear cousin. It was Frodo's kindness and gentle nature that endeared him so to his friends. It made Merry feel fiercely protective of him.

Merry was gazing into the empty road as these thoughts ran through his mind. A fleeting shadow attracted his wandering eyes, and as he glanced toward the movement, Bilbo reappeared as suddenly has he had disappeared, right before his eyes. Merry saw him regard some small thing that lay in the palm of his hand. Bilbo raised the thing to his lips and kissed it, then flipped it into the air, a glittering golden flash in the sunlight. He caught it deftly and slipped it into the pocket if his waistcoat.

Merry scrambled to his feet, and watched Bilbo walk away toward the Hill. The tales were true! And he had never more than half- believed those stories of dragons and treasure that Bilbo told. Merry felt a great consuming desire to follow and speak to him, but he forced himself to wait. It would not do, to reveal that he had witnessed this strange event.

Merry carefully schooled himself to lock it in his heart, for some voice that spoke deep in his mind said that a time would come when this secret would serve him well. He waited for about an hour before he returned to the road and jogged toward Bag End, whistling in the golden afternoon sunlight.

**Part Two: Young Merry in Hobbiton  
**_the pre-Quest follies of a 'tween Hobbit_

Merry could not contain himself... the mystery was just **_too_** delicious. He found himself visiting Bag End every chance he could, even inventing excuses to his parents for chances to observe odd Mr Bilbo. Cousin Frodo was an excellent excuse.

Not that Merry was not genuinely fond of Frodo Baggins; they had been as brothers before Frodo's adoption by Bilbo. But what he had witnessed that day on the Bywater Lane germinated in his imagination, and tales of dragon treasure and magic rings were like salt in the wound of his sin. What could the harm be; just a casual inquiry or a glance in Bilbo's study?

Frodo was unusually close-mouthed to Merry's questions, delivered under the veil of fire-side tales. He openly discussed his eccentric uncle's strange deeds and stories, but in the matter of the magic ring, he offered no information. Merry sensed that he was concealing something; Frodo had always been the worst liar, and his cousin Merry could read him like a book.

Bilbo's study was harder to get into than a guarded castle, now that Merry was keen to try. The door was ever closed, and Bilbo in and out so often one was never sure if he was inside. Merry borrowed books frequently, and even wound up improving his own ciphering skills as an excuse to be inside that trove of intrigue, though he could never linger as long as he liked, and never-ever alone.

Merry was sure that he would burst with frustration, until the lucky day dawned and his long awaited chance occurred. He was on holiday from Buckland, spending a fortnight with his cousins in Hobbiton.

Frodo and Merry had been studying in Frodo's room, working together on equations that Bilbo thought would hone the skills of the future Masters of Bag End and Buckland. Numbers were a gift to Merry; he could always beat Frodo when they raced through a quiz. However, when it came to the creation of poetry and song, he deferred to Frodo. Merry found himself stuck over the preparation of even a simple couplet, and he did not sing well; only in choruses, and even then, only the loud and comical songs.

Bilbo stepped into the room, greeting Merry absently as if he had not been there for several days already. Merry smiled, used to the old hobbit's preoccupations.

"Frodo, my lad, would you mind terribly running down to Bywater? I have exhausted my ink supply, and we've only your little bottle left in the whole smial. Guy Burrows has a fresh supply, or should still have an odd bottle lying about... be a good lad and fetch some for me?"

"Of course, Uncle!" Frodo leapt up instantly; the young hobbits had been lying side-by-side on the floor, sharing the inkwell. "Want to come, Merry?"

Merry saw a glimmer of opportunity. "I bet you can't get back before I finish this sheet." He dared his cousin with a sly smile.

Frodo laughed. "I have a better chance beating you on my feet than with my ciphering! You have your bet!" And the young hobbit raced out of the hole, and Bilbo called after him, "And bring back some cakes for tea!"

Bilbo went back into his study, and Merry worked furiously to finish his paper, all the while listening with long ears for any movement from Bilbo.

Just as Merry was despairing that Frodo would be back before another chance came, someone pulled the bellrope outside Bag End's front door.

"Frodo, there is someone at the door!" Bilbo's voiced drifted through the smial, faint behind his closed door. Merry grinned; he had totally forgotten that Merry was even there.

The bell rang again. Merry heard Bilbo sigh, then his door opened with a creak, and he thumped down the hall, irritated at the interruption. The study door did not creak shut again. Merry raced silently down the hall and slipped into the forbidden room!

His eyes sought the Red Book—it was not in its usual place! Merry scanned the shelves frantically, hearing Bilbo talking with his unwelcome visitor. _There were so_ _many_ _books...!_

"No, I don't have time today, I'm sorry! Come tomorrow, and we'll discuss it over tea." A response was murmured, and Merry heard the front door close with a snick. He did not have time to get out of the room! Hastily, he tucked himself behind the door just as Bilbo opened it and came inside. He closed the door and turned toward his desk, muttering darkly about the Sackville-Bagginses.

Merry's heart was in his mouth. If Bilbo turned or if Merry moved an inch, the old hobbit could not fail to see him. His mind flew a hundred miles an hour, trying to come up with a plausible reason for him to be standing inside the study... nothing came to mind. Merry closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Someone knocked on Bilbo's study door and then opened it; Merry was covered temporarily. He could not breathe... his heart was beating so loud he was afraid that Bilbo would hear.

"Mr Bilbo, sir?" Merry recognized the Gaffer's voice. "Sorry to disturb you sir, but I thought you ought to know... them S.B.'s, sir, they are making a row down the lane. I fear it is young Frodo that they're teething on."

Bilbo jumped up and left the room, and Merry suddenly felt very bad. Drat those Sackville-Bagginses, waylaying poor Frodo on an errand for his Uncle! But as he moved to exit the room and follow, he spied the Red Book upon Bilbo's desk, where it had been covered with a map so that he did not see it earlier.

Temptation seized him, and he was drawn to the open pages, lit clearly in the sunlight falling through Bilbo's open study window. His eyes soaked up the text, and he eagerly turned page after page, keeping his finger in the place where it had lain open.

Almost he forgot himself. When the noise of Bilbo's return, accompanied by a harassed Frodo, came to his ears, he flipped the book back to the original page and dove out of the open window into the garden behind Bag End. He scrunched himself up under the eave of the window and listened.

"Drat those two! Will they never get past the fact that I have the right to choose my heirs? They are so greedy... they shame the name of Baggins!" Bilbo's voice was angry. Merry trembled, imagining that he might become the target of that anger.

Frodo's voice was softer. "They are disappointed, Bilbo. I think I understand them... Bag End is a beautiful hole, and I am grateful that I can share it with you."

"It is **not **your fault, Frodo! You are much more forgiving than I, sweet boy! I am glad you did not heed their spiteful words! Come on, let's have some tea! My ideas for the book are quite driven from my head now!"

Then came the words Merry most dreaded:

"Where is Merry?

⌂

Merry crouched under the window, his heart hammering like a rabbit's. He decided that he would claim that he went for a walk and had been out of the hole and missed the excitement—when the bushes parted suddenly and Sam Gamgee's face appeared, staring at Merry in surprise.

"Master Merry! What ever are you doing under Mr Bilbo's window?" Merry was startled exceedingly, and his excuses faded from his lips. Sam was whispering, and he motioned Merry away, leading him out into the garden behind the tomato trellis.

Merry wondered if his heart had stopped beating... he felt numb, and he could not stop the scarlet flush that crept over his face. He stammered that he had heard the S.B.'s at the door, and had hidden to avoid them. He could see that Samwise was having none of his story.

The look on Sam's face clearly showed that he knew Merry was lying. He said nothing; it wasn't the place of any Gamgee to correct a Brandybuck—or a future Master at that! But Sam was very close in age to Merry, and he was smarter than most thought. He simply looked at Merry, and Merry felt suddenly very wretched.

"All right, Sam." he said with a sigh, "I will tell you the truth. I was lurking there to try to learn more about Mr Bilbo's..."

"_**Elves?**_" Sam hissed the word, and Merry winced; he was sure that the noise would carry all the way to Bywater. Sam's eyes were lit up, and then he began to blush, too. Merry guessed that Sam must have found that spot behind the rosebush under Bilbo's window for purposes of his own lurking business. Oh ho!

Merry thought quickly. "Yes, something of that indeed, Master Gamgee. I think we both have a little secret now, don't we?"

Sam looked down with a grin. "I'm sure you don't mean any harm in it, Master Merry—I don't! Perhaps we will just forget to mention this to anyone." But Sam's face darkened a little, and he was most serious. "I don't think that you did right though, sir, lettin' Mister Frodo go off alone and get tangled with those Sackville-Bagginses. No tale of Elves is worth him being hurt and friendless. It is not the place of any Gamgee to tell another hobbit what to do. You are more able than I to protect him, if you don't mind me saying so."

Merry was plunged again into shame. "You are right, Sam! That is my place." He breathed a sigh of relief, and moved to go back to the hole, but Sam stayed him with a touch on his sleeve.

"One might learn a lot from a glimpse of Old Mr Bilbo's book," he said. His large brown eyes caught at Merry; he was pleading to know something he could never ask. Merry hesitated, and Sam closed his fingers very gently around his arm. "One hears many strange things that want sharin'," he added, a smile playing around his lips. Merry suddenly saw—not Samwise the gardener's son—but another hobbit 'teen eager for adventure and friendship. He clasped Sam's hand and shook it.

"All right, Sam! But we shall not let our game become known to any other soul, and we will always look after Frodo and Bilbo first and foremost!" Sam shook his hand back with a toothy grin.

⌂

With Sam as a more plausible alibi, Merry was excused of his strange absence and after tea was taken and Bilbo had closeted himself again, Frodo and Merry sent out for a stroll in the garden to enjoy the afternoon sun. Merry could tell Frodo was preoccupied.

"I'm sorry I did not walk with you to Bywater, Frodo! Maybe Lobelia and Otho would not have..."

"_They_ would have!" Frodo gave his cousin a smile, but it was not the usual bright, sunny smile. It was rather tired and sad-looking, and Merry felt again the wretchedness of his selfish compulsion. Frodo saw his discomfort, and thumped him upon the back.

"Don't worry, Merry! They are part and parcel of being Bilbo's heir, and I would not trade my place with any other hobbit, in the Shire or out of it! Come on... let's race to the pool! I have an urge to swim!"

Merry ran after Frodo, and he was suddenly glad to be Merry Brandybuck, friend of the Bagginses of Bag End. He promised himself that never again would Frodo Baggins go anywhere without him along to protect him.

... And when a Brandybuck makes an oath, not word, wraith, nor wide-open space can force him to break it!!


	6. Ch 6 Fireside Tales: Bilbo and Greenleaf

**The Heir of the Hill**  
**Chapter 5, Fireside Tales Prelude:**  
**Bilbo and Greenleaf **

_A prelude to a new tale, beginning in Bag End, The Hill, Hobbiton, Westfarthing, The Shire _

Frodo as at his uncle's knee, his eyes large with wonder as he listened to Bilbo read from his book. The leather on the binding gleamed red as dragon's fire, and Frodo fancied he could hear the roar of the great beast in the crackle of the hearthfire. He shivered with delighted terror.

This was his favourite of all his Uncle's stories. The strange Dwarves, and the Wizard who came and went at will, magical rings and riddles in dark places, eagles and man-bears and goblins; every chapter held him enthralled and he would listen spellbound.

Outside the wind howled in a February storm, whipping snow and freezing rain against the thin windows of Bag End. All of the Shire was hunkered down in their holes and houses, staying warm and waiting out the weather.

Frodo heard the wind and his eyes were filled with fire; Bilbo's voice seemed also to fade beyond the sound of his own thinking. Something was missing from the story, he realized as he listened. Puzzles formed in his head. He sat up and touched his Uncle's sleeve.

"I have a question, Uncle Bilbo," he said.

"Only one question, Frodo?" Bilbo laughed. He could recognize that tone in the young hobbit's voice, so he knew that something was rattling around inside his nephew's head. When Frodo was in a question mood, Bilbo could expect an interesting debate. He turned the thick page to begin the next chapter, but Frodo would not be put off.

"One question to begin, Uncle," Frodo said, and he ran his finger across the map he had been looking at as he listened to the story. He pointed to the dark tangle of ink that depicted Mirkwood Forest. Tiny webs and wicked-looking spiders had been cleverly wrought in the slashes that represented trees. "You have always said that Elves are good folk, and the few I have met are very pleasant and fair indeed. Why then did the Elf-King lock Thorin and the Dwarves in the dungeons? That is not a nice thing to do."

Bilbo looked at his nephew over the top of the book. He lowered it to his lap when he saw the look of conflict on the young one's face. "They _are_ good folk, Frodo my lad! They certainly are! But it was a sticky situation in Mirkwood at that time, and Elves and Dwarves have not been friends for a very long while. Ages indeed, back when the great smiths worked in the Dwarf cities, and when Menegroth and Nogothrond were built, they were friendly then, but alas! Much fighting has come between them, even war."

"War between Elves and Dwarves?" Frodo was astonished by the idea. "I would not want to see that! They should not fight each other!"

"Aye, my lad, they should not, nor should they fight Men. There are enemies enough without looking for more among those who should be allies." Bilbo's face was sad suddenly, and Frodo noted with surprise that he could see lines and shadows in his Uncle's face that he had not noticed before. He rolled to his feet and stoked the fire until the room seem brighter. The lines disappeared as Bilbo smiled at his energetic nephew.

"Tell me what happened in the Elf-king's palace," asked Frodo, settling again against Bilbo's knee. Bilbo turned the pages forward to that part if the story, but before he could begin to read, Frodo stopped him. "Not the book, Uncle. Tell me what happened to you, when you were living in the palace before you helped Thorin escape. You were there for a long time, but hardly anything is said in the story about that. You must have had some adventures with the Elves, even if they could not see you."

Bilbo laughed and closed the book. He laid it aside gently, and picked up his pipe, loading it as he chuckled. "Adventures with the Elves, eh? Well, well, now that you say, there are a couple of things I left out of the story, 'cause it wasn't really part of _that_ story and also… because I was rather unkind to one particular Elf and I do not wish to compound my crime or his embarrassment. If he ever learned that I was the one responsible for his misfortune... well! I would hate to have to explain to his face!"

Frodo fetched a burning straw to light his uncle's pipe. He blew it out the flame and let his head tilt to one side, grinning at Bilbo with his eyes glinting. "You once said that we would have no secrets between us, Uncle."

"So I did! What a memory you have, my lad! Well, put the kettle on, this is a long tale. But you must swear that you will never repeat this tale to anyone! Our secret, Frodo, just like before..." and he patted his waistcoat pocket. Frodo nodded eagerly, and fetched the water swiftly, settling again at Bilbo's knee to listen as the tale unfolded.

**Chapter 5: Bilbo and Greenleaf, ****part 1 **

_By the hearth in Bag End on a shivery February winter..._

"Well, my lad, sit there and let me tell you first about a beautiful Elf-woman named Losengriol. She was the wife of the King of Northern Mirkwood, and she had a son named Greenleaf. He was a young elf, barely a couple of hundred years old when this story begins, and she loved him well, as did her husband Thranduil.

"One day, Losengriol and her son went deep into the forest, for there were in dark places a kind of leaf and a kind of bark, and also a kind of mushroom that grew where no light ever fell, and these were valued by the Elves for their rare properties. But alas, also to be found in those places are creatures who shun the light of the Sun, and they are dangerous and some are of evil intellect. These did Greenleaf fall prey to; as he sought deep under a thick growth of woven thorns and cobwebs, for the plants his mother desired, a large spider did sting his hand, and he fell in a swoon at the poison bite..."

⌂

_In Mirkwood Forest, many a long year ago..._

"_Emme_, you know Father hates it when you go into the forest alone." Legolas closed the door to the secret exit from his father's palace, sometimes called Menegroth after that ancient kingdom lost beneath the sea. He made sure that the entrance was invisible to all eyes—just a leafy wall it seemed when closed. He shouldered his empty pack and turned to his mother who was waiting for him. "He worries about you," the young elf said.

"An escort equal to a score of brave men I have in thee, my son," answered Losengriol. She smiled at him and smoothed his fine blonde hair. "The finest archer, the best hunter, and the most loyal subject in all of Thranduil's leafy kingdom, all in one."

Legolas blushed with pride at his mother's words, and though he still felt they should have more of an escort, he did as Losengriol's commanded, her words delivered lovingly but with the stern expectation of his unfailing obeisance. He had saddled two horses in stealth and led them to the private door that the King had built in secret. Losengriol used it frequently to enter the forest without raising the attention of the King. She went there to fetch special plants for medicines or to walk in the free air of the leafy world, where her heart was most truly happy. Little did she care to dwell in the carven holes made by Dwarves; she would playfully tease her spouse and son by saying, "Elves belong in trees!" and Thranduil would say how the well fortified and strong were the walls of Menegroth, and how similar it was to that ancient kingdom where his kin once dwelt, and where he had met his wife beneath the oaks that girded the kingdom of Thingol and Melian.

"Yes, and you met me… where, my lord? Beneath the trees!" and she would win the argument every time.

Mother and son rode into the trees, holding hands outstretched, and they laughed with delight for the wind in their hair and the dappled light of the sun on their faces. The entire world was a leafy tapestry woven of living threads; bough and vine, and shrub and bole. The ground was soft, and their horses made no sound as they walked. The grass was brilliant green and the leaves shining; the air was damp and fragrant after a summer rainfall.

There were any hundred things to catch the attention of a young elf, but Legolas kept his eyes and ears on the movements and sounds of the forest, watching vigilantly while Losengriol gathered her special plants, murmuring an Elvish blessing for each one.

They worked their way into the dark heart of the woods, for Losengriol was seeking a very special plant, a puffball that grew only where the sun had never touched the earth. They had to venture deep into the woods to find such a place, far from the paths of the Wood Elves. They left their horses grazing beneath a beech tree and walked on, for the growth grew close together, and the ground-cover soon became thick and gnarled and difficult for even those on feet to traverse. Legolas's sharp eyes spotted large spiders in the trees above, and he notched his bow and made ready to shoot if any began to descend their silvery ropes.

Losengriol saw them, too. She beckoned silently for Legolas to follow slowly, and they crept forward. She had located her mushrooms and they lay beneath a thick-woven nest of thorns and cobwebs, old leaves and dry vines choked out of life.

Legolas could not watch his mother mar her beautiful hands on such work, and he gave her is bow and knelt, reaching beneath the thorn-break himself for the plants. He drew his hand back with a hiss, and a big spider dropped to the ground. It was whitish and nearly invisible, and had hidden in the mould beneath the mushrooms, striking out with its stinging beak. Legolas fell back against Losengriol, for already the wound was darkening, and angry red lines ran up the pale skin of his arm. He swooned as the venom overcame him, and Losengriol saw with dismay the greater spiders dropping now with silent speed to steal the prey of their lesser kin. She abandoned the bow and arrows; gathering her son in her arms, she ran.

For years uncounted she had roamed this wood, and other woods before she had come here. She knew the animal trails and every lighting-blasted limb and twisted root. The spiders pursued her but they could not overtake her; like a doe she ran, and her burden slowed her not, for love and fear lent her speed, and she went swift through the trees to the place where the horses had been left.

She smelled them before she saw them; goblins. A hunting party had followed the prints of the horses, and had tracked them to the glade. The horses had bolted and fled, and the goblins were arguing and cursing the sun; she heard their harsh voices. She bent her path to avoid them, running swift around and daring not to linger and hide, for the spiders still followed, and she could hear their hissing and rustling above.

One of the goblins spied her movement, and shouting he drew his bow of horn and fired an arrow after her. She did not stop or slow, but ran on with greater speed. Not for her own life did she fear, but for that of her son and the heir of her people's ruler.

She heard cries and more curses behind her, and she knew that the spiders had taken some prey at last. A part of her laughed, as the plans of evil by evil were undone again, but still she did not slow her flight, for another race was upon her, and she wanted to reach her sanctuary.

In a grove of oaks just beyond the wall of the palace, she lay down her son Legolas on a leafy bower. He opened his eyes, for the venom was in him still, but he was strong and fought the unnatural sleep. He saw her with blood upon her, and he cried out and took her in his arms. She smiled at him and took his face in her hands, her white fair hands, and she spoke to him one last time. "Beneath the trees," she said.

And then she died.

⌂

_Back __in the Bag End, Bilbo's favourite armchair creaks..._

Bilbo took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes, sighing and clearing his throat.

"That is so sad, Bilbo!" Frodo said softly, and his eyes were full of tears. He leaned his head against Bilbo's leg and stared into the fire.

"That is one of the reasons I have not told you this tale, my lad," said the old hobbit, tousling Frodo's dark curls affectionately. "I thought that it would upset you; make you think about your own mother, dear Primula."

"All my memories of her are happy ones, uncle. When I think of her, I remember being warm and safe and loved. They don't ever make me sad... except, well... I wish that I had _more_ memories of her." The young hobbit sighed. He lifted his head and placed his chin on Bilbo's knee, looking up at him with eyes of sapphire. "Greenleaf was very sad that his mother died, I am sure. How terrible for him!"

"Yes, he was sad, but death for Elves is not what death is for Hobbits or Men, or even Dwarves. Their spirits go to Elfhome, away beyond the furthest West, and sometimes they can come back again."

"Like Glorfindel of Gondolin? I love that tale, though it is also very sad!"

"Yes, just so! My, what a memory you have, Frodo! And so, you see, even though he was very sad, Greenleaf knew that his mother still lived across the vast sea, and he knew someday he would see her again."

"Oh, good," breathed Frodo, and he sat against Bilbo again, his head on his uncle's lap. "That makes listening easier! But what has this story to do with your adventure with Thorin? Did this happen while you were there?"

"Who is telling this tale, Frodo Baggins?" said Bilbo in mock annoyance, and Frodo giggled. "Take that kettle off the flames before it boils away completely and fetch some bread and jam from the pantry. We shall have some tea, and then I will tell you more."

**Chapter 5: Bilbo and Greenleaf, part 2 **

_Winter howled through the Shire, but in Bag End, two hobbits sat near a warm hearth, one telling and one listening..._

"Well of course all this happened hundred and hundreds of years before Thorin and his company, myself included, ventured into Mirkwood Forest. The king had done as his wife had asked with her last breath and made a mound for her beneath the very oak tree where she had lain her son and herself down. He missed her greatly, for she was much beloved to him and had been with him for many, many years. He waited patiently to see if she would someday return..."

⌂

When King Thranduil had been told that both his son and wife were found dead, he cast down whatever he had to hand and hurried to their sides. A search party had discovered them lying together some distance from the walls of the palace. He knelt with stricken face, but shouted quickly for a healer to be brought, for he saw that his son was not dead, only swooning with venom and grief. He lifted his wife into his arms and wept with sorrow, but he also wept with joy that his son was yet alive.

Legolas was borne back to the fortress and succored with herb and healing draught, and in time restored to health to the king's great relief. When he was able, he visited his mother's grave, bringing flowers from sun-drenched meadows or wreaths of green leaves from the tops of the mighty trees, mistletoe and holly, to adorn her mound. After many years had past he still visited there, to be alone with his thoughts and his memories of her. The fair walls of the palace did close on him as they had upon her, and he longed often for the freer air.

Thranduil frowned upon his frequent ventures outside of the fortress alone, but he could stay the willful son no more ably that he could the mother. He watched from a distance whenever he learned that Legolas had left the caverns, and he sent stealthful guards that Legolas ignored.

He grew in strength in those long years; mind and body were honed by the skill and wisdom of the father. Legolas trained with Thranduil's best swordsmen and bowmen, becoming greater in skill than any other of the folk in Mirkwood; He earned justly from his proud father the title of a Chief of the guards.

He was on guard during the Festival of Sudden lights, the Elf-feast that was celebrated in the forest, and which twelve dwarves interrupted with their untimely arrival, venom-sick and starving. Thranduil was angered by their intrusion, and also by their leader Thorin, whom he had already taken prisoner for his uncivil tongue and trespass. Little did he love dwarves, and these were a particularly surly and uncooperative lot. They refused to answer even simple questions, so Thranduil had them locked away in the dungeons until they recalled courtesy.

⌂

_Winter's breath rattling the windows of the Shire, far away from Mirkwood Forest..._

"Now understand, Frodo," said Bilbo, leaning forward and looking into his nephew's eyes, "Remember, the spiders were roused, and Greenleaf and the other guards were hard put to it to fight them off while their folk escaped, leading twelve dizzy dwarves and one invisible hobbit. I followed their lanterns, wearing the Ring, and saw that many spiders who had crept up behind us were slain and driven back by the fierceness of the bow of Greenleaf.

"And in the dungeons the Dwarves stayed for a long while, aye, for still Thorin refused to yield a reason why he was traveling through the Elf-king's territory, and stubborn and obstinate were all his words. Thranduil said in his wrath that Thorin could wait there for a hundred years, if he chose. Elves can afford to be very, very patient!"

Bilbo chuckled, finishing his tea that had grown cold at his hand. He set the cup aside, and leaned back, continuing, "None of the other dwarves would speak either, so Thranduil let them alone in their cells, and in doing this, he saved all our lives.

"For the woods were crawling with wargs and goblins, and the spiders were stirred up and angry. No Dwarf and hardly any Elf were safe in the forest anymore...

⌂

_Horns blowing in the fortress, ringing through the caverns…_

Thranduil went swiftly to the gate to see that a group of goblins were gathered under a ragged flag of dirty white, begging the King's hearing. He went forth with a strong guard and his son beside him, and listened to the parley of the goblins.

"How dare you come into the territory of Thranduil, King of Northern Mirkwood, and what have you to say to him?" spoke Legolas, for Thranduil would not speak to any goblin in wrath of the loss of his wife and many of his folk over the long years of struggle. Legolas's wrath was hardly less, but it was his place as Chief of the guard, and he bit back his anger.

A large hairy and obscenely twisted goblin stepped forward, holding the filthy white rag like a shield against the cutting glare of the Elf King. "O mighty king of all the Forest," began the goblin, sniveling with attempted flattery, "We come from the Mountains, hunting murderous dwarves that have slain the Great Goblin! They snuck into our tunnels like thieves and robbed us, and by wizardcraft have ended our great leader! We desire only revenge for our chieftain. We offer no harm to any Elf, or any who have friendship with the Great King of Mirkwood." The goblin ducked in a parody of a bow, and his snarling face would have smiled, if such an exercise were able so foul a creature.

"Begone, spawn of Morgoth!" said Legolas harshly, unable to contain his ire further. "No satisfaction will you find here, nor will you find aught in this forest except your own deaths, if you linger here. You have no business in the Forest! Go back to your holes."

"Let the Lord King of Mirkwood speak his own words, _snaga_," snarled the goblin to Legolas, and he laughed at the Elf's flushed face. His laughter was cut short as a feathered shaft appeared piercing the scrap of white cloth he held. He dropped it and turned to hurry away, looking back over his itching shoulders. The other goblins spat and cursed the elves, shaking their fists and growling.

"Well said, son of Thranduil," spoke the King, for he was greatly pleased to hear that the Great Goblin was dead, though doubtless he would soon be replaced with some other greedy and tyrannical orc. He ordered the guards doubled, and sent a strong party to assure that the goblins departed the area.

⌂

_Green forest fades to red fireside..._

Frodo sat up, his legs crossed and his elbow set on them, attending Bilbo's words most avidly. When his uncle paused in his tale, he stood and filled the tea cups, noting that the drifts of snow outside were piling up so that the holes and houses of Hobbiton seemed like so many mounds with little curls of smoke seeping from their peaks. He placed another log on the fire, then resumed his place, nodding for Bilbo to continue.

Bilbo chuckled. "I think the Elf King then figured out for himself why Thorin was there, and what might follow if he was released—Thorin would try to take back the kingdom of his forefathers from the Dragon. Thranduil could handle a mob of angry goblins, but the wrath of Smaug would destroy his forest and his people. He had a truce with the foul lizard, bought with gold and treasure from his own vaults, to spare the trees from his draconic appetite so long as no Elf raised a hand or bow against the wurm.

"Greatly did Thranduil disdain that truce, but rulers must do what they can to protect their people, even if it is very distasteful. He aided the Men of Long Lake and secretly sent them arms of superior workmanship, but the men were long past the strength and will to fight openly against the dragon. Only a few would carry the strange and fair weapons of the Elves, for they feared and envied their grace and long lives."

Frodo interrupted his uncle, his face bright with excitement, "Did King Thranduil then make the Black Arrow that Bard the Bowman slew the dragon with?"

"Now! No jumping ahead in the story! You would think that you have heard it all before, the way you carry on!" Bilbo laughed and patted Frodo's head, and the young hobbit chuckled.

"The king would not sell the Dwarves, you see; while he was not friendly with them, he did honour their deed and respect them their lives as he did all living things. But soon the goblins returned, and this time they said they had captured an Elf and that they would ransom his life only for the Dwarves. Thranduil cast about for his son who was absent from his usual place, and he knew who it was that the goblins had captured."

Frodo gasped and sat up sharply. "Not Greenleaf? Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes, I'm afraid. They took him by surprise when he went to visit his mother's grave. Lay in wait for him in that place, they did, having no respect for a resting-place.

"Stricken was the king, but he granted no parley. A captive of the goblins is a victim of the goblins, as is oft said, for they slay their captives cruelly rather than allow them to be rescued. Thranduil knew that his son was likely already dead, and his heart mourned.

Taking his own sword in hand, he came out through the gates and slew the foul messenger, and ordered that all guardsmen prepare for battle, for they would march on the marrow against the goblins and drive them from the forest at last."

**Chapter 5: Bilbo and Greenleaf, part 3**

Bilbo patted his excited nephew on the head. "Well! I was beside myself with fear for Greenleaf, as I knew little of the ways of goblins, it seemed to me that Thranduil had forsaken his son, and that made me angry. I had grown fond of Greenleaf in the time I had spent in the caverns. I slipped from the fortress and followed the party of goblins back to their camp, tagging along just within sight of their torches. I was afraid that they would have wolves about them, but they had none. When we reached their camp I saw that Greenleaf was indeed still alive, gagged and bound to a tree.

"The goblins reported that their leader had been slain by the king, and called for Greenleaf's blood to repay it, but the chieftain refused, claiming that this action proved that the Elves had the Dwarves in keeping. He insisted that the Elf would be useful still. An argument started and the goblin messenger and the chieftain began to fight.

"Of course I took full advantage of the situation, and I slipped behind the bound Elf and cut his ropes with Sting. He couldn't see me, but as soon as he was free he was running, and I hurried on behind as fast as I could. It was some time before the goblins noticed that he was gone! Some how I managed to keep the running Elf in sight, and made it back to the fortress just as the great doors opened. King Thranduil was at the head of the column of warriors, riding out to bring battle to the goblins. Greenleaf collapsed in the arms of his own father, and I slipped into the fortress through the open gates.

"Thranduil ordered his soldiers to attack, for a great band of angry goblins could be heard following, howling and yammering and coming to revenge themselves. The goblins met a wall of spears and were destroyed. If any survived that attack, it was because they had tripped and gotten lost in the forest! Thranduil won the day, and his son was alive and safe."

Frodo's eyes were round and wondering. Surely his uncle was the bravest and most resourceful adventurer in the entire world! "You rescued him! And he never knew that you helped him?"

"No, my boy. Discretion being the better part of burglary, I failed to mention it and simply headed for the kitchen to steal some bread and a mug of wine to recover myself. That was when I got the Idea... and the key to helping my Dwarves escape."

Bilbo cleaned out his pipe. He glanced through the ice-coated window at the thick fall of snow outside. "It was not this cold when we made our escape, but the water of the River Running felt as though it were freezing to this old hobbit! Let me tell you, Frodo, it was a cold drink indeed!

"The king's private pantry, which I had long discovered contained the very best of foodstuffs; many beautiful platters and goblets were there stored, studded with precious gems. There were wares of silver and gold, and piles of silken napkins and linen... a great wealth of finery. And all deserving of the most excellent foods; bread so fair and white it tasted like cake, and roasted meats and fruits, vegetables steamed and baked and fried..."

"Uncle! You are making me hungry," complained Frodo with a laugh.

"Let's go and see about getting our supper going. I will need some hearty food to see me through this telling to the end, as your appetite for stories is less easily satisfied than your need for dinner!"

Frodo stood and stretched. He went to the round window and wiped a circle with his sleeve, peering through the frosted glass at the anonymous landscape beyond. He gathered up the teacups and went into the kitchen where Bilbo was shaping a loaf of bread that had been rising. He set the china down with a clatter, almost dropping a saucer.

"Careful, by boy! You are as bad as a Dwarf with my good china!"

"Chip the glasses, crack the plates... that's what Bilbo Baggins hates!" sang Frodo in a low squeaky voice, the closest he could come to the booming baritone of a Dwarf-singer. Bilbo laughed and filled the basin with warm water, washing up the teacups and service. He handed Frodo a dish to dry, and carried on his tale...

"As I said, the king's pantry was well-stocked, and less well-tended that day, for Thranduil was busy with is son, and killing goblins and all. I went in for a morsel to refresh and reward myself after my adventure in the forest, and found that the butler had in his haste left open a cupboard that was usually closed and locked.

"Inside were rows and rows of small bottles with corks, each containing a little liquid or a portion of any of a hundred marvelous things; leaves and stones, tiny insects like living jewels, and... other less pleasant things, too. I guessed that this must be a storage place for the magical medicines that Elves make and use.

"Now, the Elves of Mirkwood are civilized folk, and wise as all their race is wise; living for Ages and forgetting nothing. These Elves however, do not use writing and runes, thought they occasionally do learn the letters and languages of other races. So all these bottles were labeled with artful pictures, and one bottle that caught my eye had a sketch of an elf, fast asleep beneath a big mushroom.

"I took that to mean that it contained a sleeping draught rather than a shrinking draught, though by that time I was so desperate I would not have hesitated to shrink each dwarf down to the size of a mushroom cap and walk out with them all in my pockets!" Bilbo laughed and passed Frodo another dish. "But luck was mine that day, and a few days later again, when another opportunity rose that led to a chilly adventure..."

⌂

_Dark tunnels of stone, licked with torchlight..._

Legolas had no stomach for feasting. He touched his hand to his bandaged ribs and walked his remaining paces, glad to be on guard duty again and not listening to his father harangue him about risking himself by visiting his mother's grave alone. He knew that his father was glad he was alive and mostly unhurt, but coming so close to losing his son a second time had made the Thranduil stern and sharp-tongued. He had tried to get from Legolas a promise not to venture alone out if the palace again. A ridiculous request of a grown Elf! Legolas refused to swear it, and Thranduil was still annoyed with him.

Still, a feast was held to celebrate his return and the victory over the goblins. Legolas traded duty with another guard to ensure he had something else to do during the festivities.

He nodded to the Elf waiting at the end of the corridor. Legolas handed him his spear, such as all the guards carried. He sighed and walked toward his chambers, rotating his stiff arm wounded by the goblins. They had handled him roughly indeed, but he was mending, and had a thirst on him he meant to sate with a draught of wine, if there was any to be had without entering the feast hall.

As Chance would have it (for good or ill) he passed the lowest cellar, avoiding all the corridors where he might meet merrymakers, and found the door was open. Quiriki, the King's butler hailed him as he looked inside.

He was sitting at a table, a large cask of wine newly broached, a fluted decanter sitting on the board, filled with pale yellow wine. In the floor nearby yawned the open trapdoors that led to the river, flowing noisily below. Many barrels lay around, stacked and empty, ready to be sent floating back to Long Lake.

The butler rose and beckoned to Legolas. "Greetings, Thranduilion! Great is my pleasure in seeing you on your feet again! We had given up hope that you would be restored to us! I have a treat in store to celebrate your escape from the jaws of captivity!"

"I am in no mood for celebrations, Quiriki. If I were, at my father's side I would now be. And I deserve no praise for my foolishness, as I was freed by chance and some odd magic."

"All the more reason to celebrate, dear Legolas! Please come! A cask of new wine has arrived from distant Dorwinion, and it has yet to be sampled to see if it is fit for the table of the King. Try some with me?"

Legolas laughed and agreed. "We must make sure his Majesty receives only the finest wines... would not do to send on poor stuff!" He fastened the ring of keys to his belt and sat with Quiriki. The butler filled two large flagons with wine from the decanter, and they drank each other's health.

⌂

_Glasses clinking as a table is set, leagues of miles and time away from Mirkwood Forest..._

Bilbo sighed as he set two clear wineglasses on the board, "I regret having to trick the Elves, and I had rather become particularly fond of Greenleaf, but sadly it was he and the one other that were in the cellar that night, and he had the keys to my Dwarves' cells. I had no choice! This opportunity would not come again, for the barrels would be gone and the doors closed next time, perhaps. I wore my Ring at all times while I was in Thranduil's kingdom, so they could not see me when I slipped into the room. I held my breath and poured all of the tiny bottle into the breathing wine, while the Elves were still bantering in the doorway.

"A flagon each they drank, and then I saw my first sleeping Elf—two of them! I took the keys from Greenleaf's belt and rounded up my Dwarves as quick as I could, praying that all the guards were making rounds past the feasting tables, and hurried them into their barrels of freedom.

"Now, I never stole anything I did not need or use, and I used the keys to free Thorin and my friends. I did replace them on his belt, hoping that it would be believed that the Dwarves had been whisked away somehow by sorcery.

"I wondered afterward how much trouble poor Greenleaf got into over the affair, after being discovered bent with wine and thirteen dwarves short. Many a guilty night I have had! But I reckon his punishment had not been too severe. I did what I had to do, and Thorin and the Dwarves escaped and Smaug was slain. But I do often wonder what became of dear Greenleaf. I wish I could see him again!"

"Maybe you will, Bilbo!" Frodo's eyes were shining in the firelight, and the spatter of wet snow struck the windows with a musical sound. Occasionally some snow would come hissing down the flue to make the flames dance. The storm deepened outside, and Frodo shivered with delight and excitement. "Maybe we will both meet him someday! Would not that be a grand adventure?"

Bilbo smiled as he carefully loaded his pipe. There was nothing like telling tales to pass a winter day.

**The End**


	7. Ch 7 Smoke and Thunder

**The Heir of the Hill**  
**Chapter 6: Smoke and Thunder**

Twilight in Hobbiton, late in the summer. It had been another sultry day, and Samwise son of Hamfast had worked very hard making sure the cracked ground had received enough water to keep the gardens refreshed during the drought that they were suffering this year. The corn was withering everywhere that the hobbits had been unable to bring the water they had drawn from the shrinking Pool and the trickling Water. A month without rain had left all the land dry and dusty. Sam had blisters on his hands from fetching water and carrying buckets uncountable up the Hill to the gardens, trying to keep the vegetables alive.

Still, he did not neglect the flowers. Most of the blossoms had dropped off in the heat, but the greenery still needed water or they would all die and go to dust. When the sun had relented and his chores were complete, he carried more water to the Bag End gardens and carefully moistened the roots of each beloved plant.

He was finally taking his rest, wiping the sweat from his face when he heard the door of Bag End open, and Frodo Baggins stepped out. He was dressed in simple clothes, and he had a bucket in his hands. He saw Sam and smiled, swinging the pail.

"Looks like you are way ahead of me, Master Samwise! I was just going to fetch water for Bilbo's flowers, and you have already done it! Thank you!" He frowned then and looked at Sam's hands and the broken blisters that were bleeding slightly on his dirty fingers. "Now that won't do at all, Gamgee! Come inside straight away! Let's get those hands clean."

Ignoring Sam's protests, Frodo ushered him inside, and he used heated water that he poured from the teakettle into a basin to bathe Sam's hands, then bound them with soft bandages. Sam hissed a little, but did not complain, and when Frodo had finished he stood up to go home, feeling most awkward about taking so much of Mr. Baggins's valuable time. "Good night, Mr. Frodo! Thank you, I should be off home now. The Gaffer..."

"Is down at the Green Dragon with Bilbo, drinking a pint," cut in Frodo with a smile. "It's all right, Sam. Go ahead if you wish. I am going out, too." He picked up his walking stick that leaned near the front door.

Sam hesitated, one bandaged hand resting on the half-open door. "Are you going to the Green Dragon, too, Mr. Frodo?"

"No, Sam. I am going for a walk. The evening should be less hot, and I have been cooped up too long. I want some air!"

Sam stared hard at the floor, working up his courage. "Are... are you going to see _them_, sir?" An eager light was in his brown eyes.

Frodo rocked back slightly, surprised by the look on Sam's face. "'_Them_'? Whoever do you mean, Sam?"

Sam's voice sank into a whisper, "Elves, sir! Are you going to see any Elves?"

Frodo laughed and shrugged; he motioned for Sam to proceed outside and closed the door behind them. Already the night was cooler and in the distant east, clouds were catching the very last vestiges of light though the sun had long disappeared. "I don't know, Sam. They come when they wish, and even then they don't speak to me very often. I never know when I will see them. I just like to walk under the stars. Sometimes I get lucky, and I see them glowing beneath the trees, moving westward." Frodo had a small sad smile on his face while he said this, and sighed softly.

"Could I, that is, may I... maybe, if you did not mind the company... go with you, sir? I would very much like to see an Elf," Sam whispered this last word, as if speaking aloud about them would scare them away if they could hear.

Frodo laughed softly again. "If you like! I would enjoy your company. But you have worked hard today, and missed your supper watering the poor garden, by the looks of things. Luckily, in my pack I have a generous package of food, and if you care to walk with me to the Piney Knoll, we shall take a late supper there, and sit and watch the clouds cover the sky. Won't it be grand if it rained tonight?"

"Very grand and welcome, sir!" said Sam happily. He was so excited he hurried down the garden path and out the gate, forgetting to allow Frodo to exit first. He caught himself and mumbled an apology, but Frodo was unconcerned. They walked together off into the growing night, warm and hazy, cicadas singing weakly in the dry bushes and fireflies sparking brighter than the stars that twinkled faintly in the grey sky.

As they walked, Sam's initial excitement ebbed and now he was feeling somewhat guilty. He had been visiting with Master Merry of Buckland on and again all the summer and the year before, trading news of Bilbo's doings and any lore of the Elves that either had heard. Since their only source of information about the Fair Folk was Bilbo himself or Frodo, little was there to be told that the other did not already know. Yet still the shame of spying on his masters had grown in Sam, and he was now very conscious of his sin, sitting here next to Frodo and sharing his meal.

They were sitting on a small hill, on the very eaves of the small grove of elder trees that grew on the colourfully misnamed Piney Knoll. Leaves still green but dry from the baking heat of summer rustled overhead, and the grass was warm from the unrelenting kiss of the sun. They stretched out their legs and watched the clouds in the east climb into towers, blocking out the wan stars. Small flashes of red lighting flickered inside them, and Frodo was telling a tale about how hobbits had long believed that such lights were actually the breath of dragons. He was chuckling, leaning back on the dry grass. His pipe was loaded and unlit; the ground was so dry, he hesitated to strike a spark to light it.

Sam listened to Frodo's story, tales about dragons made his stomach go all funny. He watched the sky nervously, knowing that if any dragon did appear, they would doubtless find a naughty young hobbit tastier than any other prey. He had a sudden urge to confess his pact with Merry Brandybuck, and was on the verge of telling Frodo all, when a sudden strong, cool wind came buffeting the trees, and a few drops of moisture fell on their surprised faces.

"Looks like we may get that rain after all, Sam!" said Frodo, leaping up and stuffing everything back into his pack. "We will never make it to the Hill before this rain falls. Let us go into the Knoll. I know a dry cave beneath a dead tree where we can shelter this out. Come on!"

The wind was pulling at them strongly, and the clouds were leaping across the sky. The grey blanket overhead was becoming a strange shade of greenish brown, and the stars had fled before the winds. Night birds were noisy suddenly, and the raindrops became large and more frequent. Just as they reached the cave, the sky opened and a great deluge was released.

Frodo stripped off his coat and wrung it out, laughing. Sam had unwound the bandages from his hands and discarded the stained, soggy strips of cloth. He winced at every lightning stroke, and trembled at the thunder that sounded so close.

"Don't worry, Sam! This will blow over quickly, and we will be dry as ever when we finally get home! How are your hands?"

Sam mumbled something, and sat down, depressed. He had to tell Frodo what he had been doing. After a long minute, he said slowly, "Mr. Frodo, sir? May I ask you a question?"

"Of course, Sam." Frodo was striking a flint, trying to get his pipe lit.

Sam took the flint from him and struck expertly, sending a fat spark right into the tinder and setting the chip ablaze. Frodo praised him and lit his pipe, puffing it into a bright cinder. He passed it to Sam, who drew on it and passed it back. "Mr. Frodo, do you get tired of it, sir? All the folks pokin' and pryin' into you and Mr. Bilbo's business?"

Frodo puffed thoughtfully before he answered, wondering what was really going on inside his gardener's curly-haired head. "I don't think about it much, Sam. What people think and what they do, I have no control over that."

"Yes, sir." Sam was silent for a while, and they passed the pipe back and forth for a few moments, listening to the rain. "Still, it must be annoying to you to be talked about, when you hear of it, eh, sir?" He wondered how he would bring himself to tell Mr. Frodo everything, and yet not break his promise to Master Merry. A miserable position for an honest young hobbit!

Frodo shook his head, oblivious to the source Sam's discomfort. He decided that the gardener was merely nervous about the lighting and rain, and was talking just to hear a voice. "When I think about it, Sam, I guess I must interpret it as a great compliment! After all, if folk are going to talk about my Uncle and me, then we must be fairly important or interesting, and that is quite flattering. There is so much to talk about, here in the Shire!" Frodo's sarcasm was totally lost on Samwise, who felt even more miserable now. He drew a breath and was fighting to spit out the words, when he saw a glimmer through the trees, and he gasped, grabbing Frodo's arm. "Whazzat??"

Frodo sat up and looked, but he saw nothing. He chuckled again and lay back. "Nothing, Sam! Just the leaves catching the light! Your eyes are going funny on you, staring into the night!"

Sam ignored Frodo's laugh, and he continued to stare into the trees. A fair face framed with long silver hair wreathed in leaves was staring back at him, or seemed to be. When he blinked with the next flash of lighting, the vision was gone, but for a lingering luminescence under the trees.

This sight struck Sam dumb, and even if he could have found the words inside himself to tell Frodo that he and Merry had been conspiring to read Bilbo's book, he could never have said so here, where an Elf might overhear. He sat and watched the rain fall, and Frodo finished his pipe and began to sing a song that made the drip from the leaves and the crackle of thunder sound like music that was crafted around the words.

The two hobbits waited for the storm to pass, and the smoke from Frodo's pipe hung in the air, a sweet scent mingled with the summer rain.


	8. Ch 8 The Free Fair at White Downs

**The Heir of the Hill**  
**Chapter 7: The Free Fair at White Downs**  
_  
In Seven Parts_

1392 S.R.

**I**

The Free Fair is held every year on White Downs, near the chalky hills of Michael Delving. Hobbits from all over the Shire gather there to trade and sell, barter and bargain and of course, to gossip with friends and relatives that they might not see until the next year. Like a great family reunion it was, for most hobbits, and it lasted a whole week from the start with the Mayor's Welcoming Banquet, and finishing with the Mayor's Farewell Banquet. But this year, as falls on every seventh year, the new Mayor of the Shire would be announced just before the Farewell Banquet. And word was out that Old Walt Whitfoot had some competition this year. There were TWO ballot boxes set by the entrance to the Fair Grounds, both freshly painted and labeled clearly with the names of the candidates. Walt Whitfoot and… Bilbo Baggins!

"Confusticate and bebother it!" exclaimed Bilbo. He asked Frodo to pause the pony-trap again so he could leap from the board and tear down yet another poster bearing a rendering of his face, smiling falsely and asking for a nod. "I don't have time to be a mayor! I don't want it and I won't!" He tore the poster into pieces and tossed them in the backboard, where a sizable pile of paper scraps was growing.

"Don't tear up the next one, Uncle," said Frodo, not even trying to conceal his grin. "It is rather a fair likeness. I want to save one!"

Bilbo exclaimed coarsely. "You have the real Bilbo; though a poster might be more attractive than the factual Bilbo, I am afraid that you will have to be satisfied with me! I will tear up every picture I find between Hobbiton and White Downs and when we get there, I will burn the scraps!"

Frodo laughed and clucked at the pony, continuing their journey. They had started early, before even the sun had lightened the sky, so that they would arrive at a fine hour for the festivities of First Day. After a while he said, "Posco will be expecting us to stay with him, you know."

Bilbo sighed as if weary of a long day's work. "I know, Frodo. And we will, but we won't like it! That hole of his is full up with his young ones and their spouses and their young ones, plus all the relatives that could beg board from him. We should be happier camping along the roadside than in that noisy place!"

"Perhaps! Happier until it began to rain, I imagine," returned Frodo merrily. His uncle's mood could not dampen his excitement. He had been looking forward to the Free Fair all year. Merry would be there, and also Folco and Fredegar. He rather liked Posco's children Porto and Peony, and Milo Burrows who had married her, even if their older brother was rather overly polite to the point of rudeness. If he had a daughter like Angelica, Frodo imagined that he would be as irritable as Ponto, too.

Also, Paladin Took and his wife were coming this year, and Frodo would get to meet his youngest cousin Peregrin at last. Merry had met him already, and had told Frodo that young 'Pippin' would grow up to be "a handful of caution and no mistake!" Frodo hoped that the weather held sweet throughout the week. The young Took was a delicate child, and one dark cloud would scare his mother into a deep hole.

And the Fair was always fun for Frodo; races and games, singing and feasting, there were. And most of all, Frodo looked forward to visiting the Lore Gardens.

The first time Bilbo had brought Frodo to the White Downs Fair, he had taken the youth to the house where folk from all over the Shire brought their books. For trading or to have re-bound, and also to allow others to read before they were returned to the dusty libraries in some lost dark hole away beyond forgotten. Frodo had loved the smell of the old books, the texture of the bindings and the covers, and the crisp pages turning, revealing family histories, sketches and maps, and some outrageous stories that couldn't be heard around any fireside. It was an attraction that had left the lad wanting more, and every year he came to the Fair, he always sought the Lore Garden first, and visited it every day to see the new arrivals and talk with the owners of the books. He hoped to be allowed to borrow some, to re-copy before their yellowing pages were illegible.

Frodo felt so happy and light-hearted that he began to hum a song, and Bilbo was affected by his younger cousin's mood, so that he joined him singing a song.

"To the Fair! To the Fair!  
The Sun is shining on the hair  
Of lovely lasses dresses their best  
And lads who wait to take their tests  
And join the feasting that will be  
The fairest part of the frivolity!  
To the Fair! To the Fair!"

Bilbo did not even notice the next three posters bearing his face as they rode past in the growing light of morning, and Frodo decided not to disturb him by mentioning it.

**II**

Posco's hole was in the hills behind the village of White Downs. So close to Michael Delving it was that often the inhabitants themselves were confused about which town they lived in, or so it was joked about the Shire. Posco Baggins was a wealthy hobbit, as most Baggins were, and his pride was to host more family members than any other Baggins in the area. Generally, he succeeded.

Frodo and Bilbo arrived in time for nuncheon, and were welcomed loudly and with genuine enthusiasm from Posco and Porto and Peony, with more reserve by Ponto, and open hostility from Lotho and Lobelia, who were also enjoying their cousin's hospitality. Almost Frodo's good mood failed him when he say their sour faces but his younger cousins swept him away from the older hobbits, and they brought him to the garden where lunch had been set for the little ones. Frodo was much older than they were, but they loved him greatly for he had a youthful heart and was quick and eager to laugh, and he would listen to their tales and share his own. All the young hobbits adored Frodo. Angelica even forgot to preen her hair and sat listening raptly as Frodo regaled them with a story of hunting mushrooms and being chased by mad dogs. Fredegar was there with his younger sister Estella, who smiled shyly at Frodo but spoke not a word. They were Bolgers, but their parents were friendly with Posco and his wife Gilly. The young ones had a merry lunch, and begged their older cousin to stay and play with them.

"Not now, my dear little adventurers!" proclaimed Frodo affectionately, "I have some things to do now. But run along and enjoy the day! I will be here for a week and we will surely have time to play." He watched them run off, laughing as Estella walked with her head turned to watch him and stumbled over Angelica who had paused to straighten her hair bow. He turned then and hurried toward the fields beyond the last houses in town, hoping to get the Lore Garden early to enjoy a few hours of uninterrupted reading.

His plans were not meant to be realized so easily, however. At the bottom of the hill he ran smack-dab into Sandyman the miller and his son, towing an overburdened cart toward the fairgrounds. They had a single pony pulling the waggon, and Ted was ruthlessly whipping its flanks as it struggled up the steep rise. Frodo paused in his run, wishing to express his anger at the ill-treatment of the animal as they rode past, but he was so furious that he could not find any words. As the cart trundled away, he sighed and unclenched his fists, turning on his way again.

He heard a shout behind him, and suddenly the cart was roaring toward him, rolling down the hill and scattering lumber and goods as it wove out of control. Frodo leaped to the side of the ditch just as the contraption whooshed past him, coming a scarce hand's breadth from crushing him against the steep bank carved through the hill. Ted and his father were running after it, cursing and trying to catch up to the runaway waggon. Broken leather harnesses dragged the ground, their brass buckles ringing on the stones like bells.

Frodo places a hand over his heart and exhaled sharply. That was close! He climbed the hill and found the pony where it had been left when the harnesses had broken. It was trembling and sweated, and looked as if it had not been properly fed for a season. Frodo patted its head soothingly and gave it the apple he had in his pocket. He found a floppy hat that had been trampled into the dust, and he used it to fetch water from a nearby well, and let the pony drink. He splashed its flanks with water and rubbed it down with a handful of grass until it stopped trembling. The pony nuzzled him gratefully and sought in his pocket for more treats.

Ted Sandyman came striding up the hill, his face covered with dust and wearing a frown. When he saw Frodo tending his father's pony, he came forward and grasped the beast's headstall roughly. "What's the idea, Baggins? That is my da's hat!" He snatched it from Frodo's hands.

Frodo regarded Ted coolly. "You should tend your beast more carefully, Ted. That harness has not been oiled since before the last Free Fair, and probably longer. It is not the pony's fault when the harness breaks."

Ted Sandyman stood maybe a half-a-hand shorter than Frodo, but he was nearly twice his girth with labouring for his father. He was used to making hobbits back down from his even stare, as threatening as a punch, but Frodo was not intimidated by him. He had seen Ted running scared by no more than a tree and he knew that this bully was still scared, scared every day and every hour. He let his anger fall off of him. Ted was very likely no more to blame than the pony. The fault lay where neither of them could place it.

Just as Ted puffed out his chest and opened his mouth to argue with Frodo, a shout came from the bottom of the hill. "Oi! Ted, where are you with that ratty pony? Get a move on, ninnyhammer!"

Frodo saw the fear flash in the younger hobbit's face before he could master himself. Ted flushed with embarrassment and grabbing two fistfuls of Frodo's tunic, he shoved him against the pony's flank. "One word, Baggins! One word about this, and I will..."

Frodo stared into Ted face. He closed his hands over Ted's and pulled them easily away. "You will… what, Ted? Get along now, or your father will come looking for you. Stop beating that pony and he might live to pull your cart home after the fair. He is nigh to death with neglect. If he does die, I imagine your dad will make you pull the cart all the way back to Hobbiton by yourself!"

Ted stepped back and gaped at him, then grabbed the pony's lead, more gently this time and hurried away. Frodo cut across Yarrow Threadgirdle's lawn to avoid further confrontation. It was a shortcut to the fair grounds, and he waved at the kindly widow as he passed her in the garden. She smiled at the young hobbit and returned to her roses, intent on winning the "Best Rose in Bloom" competition this year. Vitra Hornblower had taken that prize home often enough.

With no more unpleasant encounters Frodo finally arrived at the Lore Garden, and he knocked politely on the door of the house.

An old hobbit opened the door, squinting at him through filmy spectacles. "Drogo Baggins? What are you doing here?" he asked in a querulous voice.

"It is Frodo, Master Goodbody; Drogo's son." Frodo raised his voice slightly, so that the hobbit would hear him. Each year the loremaster got a little blinder and a little deafer, but his skill in re-binding books was unsurpassed in the Shire. "You remember me, don't you, sir? I came last year with the Bucklebury Hearthtome."

"Ah! Velvet binding with gold edged leaves!" Master Goodbody might forget your name, but never the books he handled. "A master work! Did you bring any more?"

"Yes, master, but I don't have them with me now. Bilbo has them packed. We will bring them tomorrow when he comes to visit you." Frodo looked eagerly at the pile of books that were stacked neatly on the heavy oak table.

Master Goodbody watched Frodo over his bifocaled glasses. "Anxious to get started, eh young Baggins? Well, go ahead! I know you know how to respect a good book!" Freed in a treasure room beyond the allure of dragon's gold, Frodo happily slid onto a stool and pulled the closest book toward him, opened it, and began to read.

⌂

He was squinting at the text as the daylight failed. Master Goodbody was snoring softly, asleep before the book he had finished binding, his spectacles sliding down his long nose. Frodo closed his book quietly and stood, stretching with a soft pop in his back. He came round the table and removed the fragile glasses from the master's face, placing them near his hand. He lit a lamp that shone thickly behind the cloudy glass flue, and let himself out of the house, careful not to let the door bang shut.

The night was still warm. Frodo did not rue his cloak, forgotten where he had left over the buckboard. The stars were gleaming brightly, and all across the fairgrounds were other lights, like brighter stars twinkling among the sea of tents and booths. The wind carried a smell of roasting meats and pies, pipeweed and ale to the hungry hobbit. He wound his way through the paths and found an open-air kitchen where he purchased a plate of supper with a tarnished copper coin. The maiden who tended the tables brought him a tall mug of beer and a wedge of fruit pie with cream when he hailed her with a smile. He heard music playing some distance away, tempting him to seek it out and sing his own song to the clever tunes.

With reluctance he left the blushing maiden and the music behind, returning to the smial where Bilbo was waiting, smoking his pipe on the front lea with Posco and Milo. He greeted them and accepted a tin of weed from Posco, began loaded his pipe and sat down to listen to the tales of the day.

Gilly appeared at the sound of his voice and insisted that he come inside and eat something, since he had missed both his suppers. What would the neighbours say if he wasted to death on her front doorstep?

He laughed and stood, bowing deeply and accepting her offer, leaving the older hobbits to chuckle as he went inside. In the kitchen he told her all he things he had done that day as she made him a meal from the bones of the suppers that she had prepared earlier. She was shocked and frightened by the run-away cart, appalled by Sandymans' treatment of the poor pony, and soon laughing as he told her the funny stories he had read in the Chubb Family Treasury. When he refused a third helping of berry cobbler she decided he was well enough fed, and shooed him away when he offered to help clean up. He kissed her hand and went for a short stroll before turning in for a sleep.

This had not entirely been a bad day, for first of the Fair.

**III**

When Frodo woke the next morning, the sun was shining strongly through the laced curtains, and the smells of breakfast were coming to him, along with voices speaking softly. Several warm bodies lay nestled against him; his younger cousins had crept in during the night and settled in with him. He could not move so that they would not be disturbed. Radiant pink faces, cherubic in sleep, with unruly curls falling softly over closed eyes, traced with long silky lashes brushing their cheeks. Angelica had two fingers in her mouth. Frodo patted her straw-coloured hair, enjoying the peace and quiet before the storm, as it were.

Gilly appeared in the doorway, making pleading motions for him to remain still, and not wake the babies. She mimed bringing breakfast to them, if only he would keep the little ones asleep for a while longer. Frodo nodded. With the sun warm on his face he drifted into sleep again, dreaming that he was dancing with many children in a fair garden on the far side of the moon.

Frodo woke when three young hobbits began jumping on the bed he was lying in, singing:

**"Up! Up! Sleepy-head!  
****Get out of bed! Get out of bed!"**

He grabbed each one and bundled them into the blanket, tickling anyone who tried to escape. Angelica stood beside the bed, dressed in an impeccable pinafore and she crossly harangued her peers for being so impolite.

Gilly appeared again, accompanied by Prisca, Posco's sister. They were carrying trays laden with pastries and cream, and bacon and eggs and toast, and a carafe of coffee that made Frodo's mouth water at the aroma. He told himself he must remember to take some beans back with him to Bag End this year. Coffee was hard to get in Hobbiton. Frodo cousin Ponto had a plantation on the hills beyond Michael Delving. He wondered, as he breakfasted with the giggling children, if he could persuade Ponto to part with a bag or two of beans when he and Bilbo left. He was already cross about Bilbo resenting his nominating him as Mayor Elect.

Frodo musing was interrupted as Angelica and Everaud began squabbling over the last cream tart. He broke the pastry in half and gave each a piece, licked his finger and shooed the children away to play outside. Peony fetched the empty dishes, giving Frodo a curtsy and a peck on the cheek.

"You are so good with children, cousin," she said. Frodo thought she had the sweetest face, framed with curls coppery-red and a mass of freckles on her pert nose. She had married young Milo and already had one child. She brushed a speck of imaginary dust from her apron and glanced at him from under her lashes, her freckles flashing as she blushed. "You will make some lucky maiden a fine husband someday."

Frodo knelt and covered his heart with his hand, "Only if you were to agree to run away with me, Peony. There are no other lasses in all the Shire when I am in the room with you! They are all as weeds in the garden of your beauty." She laughed at him and curtsied again. They always flirted so, when he came to visit. Frodo knew she loved Milo completely, and he had fun making her blush so that her freckles stood out and her eyes sparkled. He closed the door gently behind her and began to prepare for the day.

Frodo met Bilbo in the kitchen for second breakfast and his uncle greeted him warmly. Ponto was arguing with his father about the mayoral election and how it was "high time a Baggins held that office again".

When Bilbo heard this, his smile sagged into a scowl. "Which of you had the brilliant idea to nominate me as mayor? As if I did not have enough to do as Master of the Hill, now you want me to be mayor of the whole Shire? Well, I won't do it!" he said petulantly, crossing his arms.

Posco chuckled and Milo smiled wryly. They knew well Bilbo's dislike for politics and posturing (at least posturing that did no service). "You are a great contributor to the poor and less fortunate, Bilbo," said Ponto, quite oblivious to his brother-in-law's grin. "You are well known… famous even! In spite of that, you would make a fine mayor."

"I'd rather tend bar at the Green Dragon! Wilcome Cotton is a popular and famous throughout the Shire... elect him mayor!" said Bilbo gruffly. Wil kept bar at the tavern in Bywater, and he would have laughed at Bilbo's suggestion, just as Posco, Milo and Frodo did now. Ponto puffed his lips and drank his coffee, flummoxed at Bilbo's renunciation.

"Well, the vote is set for Wednesday. On Thursday the ballots will be counted, and then there will be a new mayor of the Shire," Ponto said firmly.

Frodo refilled everyone's cups. "We'll have to move the Sheriff's office to Hobbiton if you win, Bilbo, and the Messenger Service and Post Office, too. I don't think that you will care to leave the comforts of Bag End to run things here." Bilbo began to expostulate and Ponto looked uncertain.

Ponto could not understand why Bilbo was not overwhelmed by this honour, nor had he anticipated the removal of the Offices. Those were local jobs and a source of pride for the towns. "Now, see here…" he began to say over Bilbo's objections. Frodo laughed and placed a calming hand on his cousins' shoulders. "I am only joking. It won't happen. Ponto, Bilbo is famous and popular, but not among the older hobbits, and they are the ones who vote. Walt is good at his job, and everyone likes him. Why change things?"

Ponto grumbled and did not answer. Posco changed the subject quickly and they began to discuss the races scheduled for the day and whom they were wagering on, the new wines and pipeweed to be sampled and judged, and other activities that lay before their pleasure.

Frodo listened to their talk, saying little and laughing a lot. He was still a young hobbit in the eyes of his elders, not of age and therefore still a child. Only Bilbo treated him like an equal, which make Ponto roll his eyes. Posco and Milo ignored him, and urged Frodo to enter the foot race that afternoon. Frodo agreed as if reluctant, but actually he had been looking forward to it.

As they rose to allow Gilly and Prisca to tidy their kitchen, Frodo grabbed his coat from the hall peg.

"Going off already, Frodo lad?" asked Bilbo. "I wonder if you would mind taking these down to Goodbody's. Posco wants me to come down to the Town Hole and talk about politics. I am going to see if I can get myself out of this!" In a whispering voice, he added, "It is beginning to feel like a good time to _disappear_!" Louder, he said, "Don't wear your eyes out, reading in that dim house all day. There are many folks who will be looking for you. Merry should be here today, and I have a wager on you for the race at three o'clock!"

"I will be there, Uncle! And I will win, like I did last year!" Frodo waved jauntily, hoisted the heavy bag of books high on his shoulder, and walked down the lane. Inwardly, he hoped that Bilbo would not have to "disappear". Something about that magic ring made him a trifle uneasy.

But he could not hold a mood of brooding for long. The air was crisp and the sun was warm. Frodo strolled purposefully, waving to folk and greeting maids, mothers and gammers with a bow. On the steps of the Lore Garden, Frodo found another friendly face. Samwise Gamgee, whittling a stick and grinning, rose to his feet as the older hobbit came near. Sam ducked his head in a bow, still grinning, brushing at the whittlings on his clothes.

"Sam! You made it!" Frodo was delighted to see his friend. "Where is the Gaffer?"

"Buffin' his taters, no doubt," answered Samwise. "He's entered the "Best Grown 'Tater" competition, so he has, and gave me leave to do with the day as I wished, so long as I kept out from underfoot. I was hopin' I'd find you here, sir. If you think Mr. Goodbody wouldn't mind…?"

"I am sure he won't, but let's not spend the whole morning at it, Sam. A free day must not be squandered! Let's see if the Master is up yet, and get started, shall we?"

Master Goodbody would not allow so young a hobbit as Samwise to touch his precious books, but he did not mind if he sat near while Frodo read aloud. Samwise listened and watched, looking at the maps and pictures with interest. Frodo hoped that soon Bilbo would have more time to spend teaching Sam his letters.

Gluing a spine that had come apart, Goodbody glanced up to watch the two hobbits bent over the book on the table before them. Too few youngsters were interested in reading and books these days. It warmed his heart to see them here, in his dusty old study. 'Good lad that Drogo Baggins,' he thought, then he squinted back down at his fingers that had become stuck fast together with paste. He sighed.

**IV**

Frodo read a chapter of Bucklebury history to Sam, then called it quits for the day. The sunlight was shining enticingly down through the smeared windows of Goodbody's house, and he heard laughter and smelled something that made his stomach rumble. He closed the book, hushing Sam's protests and they left quietly as the master was nodding over his desk. Frodo paused briefly to seal the cap on the paste bottle before letting himself and Sam out.

Once outside, he said, "Come on, Sam! I can smell mushrooms. And it is high time for elevenses, by the fall of the sun."

"Aye, sir, that it is; and by the echoing in my belly!" Together they ran to the stalls that littered the green fields of Michael Delving. Frodo bought them each a great funnel of glazed mushrooms, and they walked about the busy booths and munched on them, licking their sticky fingers. "Hard to believe that all this land is riddled with tunnels," commented Sam as they strolled along. Every while and again they would pass a chimneystack, or a vent, letting air into and out of the great maze of tunnels that had been dug into the chalky soil. "Nice lawns."

"I can't imagine living in a house, myself," said Frodo. "I think it might be rather cold in the winter time, with the wind blowing all around. I prefer a hole." They spoke of other small things and greeted the folk they knew. Sam fetched them mugs of cream ale to wash the mushrooms down, and after giving the Fair a turn round, they climbed a hill to overlook the tents and sit for a spell before lunch.

At the top of the hill, they found a strange sight. The miller and his son were there, right on the hill above the Town Hole. They were unloading their great burden of lumber there, or rather Ted was unloading it. Mr. Sandyman was walking away down the hill to speak to some people he knew. "Get that wood down from the cart, Ted, and then come and have yer lunch!"

Sam was frowning when Frodo turned to look at him. "What's wrong, Sam?"

Sam glanced down at his toes, "I don't care much for the Miller or his son, Mr. Frodo, but it is kinda hot on this hill in the sun, and Ted might get his job done quicker with more hands."

"Let's give him some, then. I was just thinking the same thing myself." They walked up to the cart. "Good morning, Ted! Can we lend you a hand?" Frodo called out with a friendly air. He was eager to bury the animosity that had grown between him and Sandyman. There was no good to come from holding a grudge.

"Be off, Baggins!" answered Ted roughly, grunting as he tried to lift a beam of wood nearly as thick around as his leg. "There are no books around here! How'd figure you'd help me?"

"Like this," answered Sam, as he and Frodo each took an end of the beam Ted was pulling at. They lifted it between them and set it down next to the others. Ted glanced nervously over his shoulder toward his father. He was standing in the shade, talking to Old Noaks and Daddy Twofoot. "Quicker to unload, with three, don't you think?" Ted allowed a smile to break on his face, and he ducked his head in gratitude.

In a thrice, they were finished, but hot and hungry. Frodo bought them all a round of ale at the kitchens. Ted looked as though he thought that the beer might bite his nose if he drank it. "Come on, Ted!" exclaimed Frodo. "Let's pretend that we don't dislike each other, just for one day! It's the Fair!"

Ted grinned a little, and he reached for the mug. Just then, it was sent flying out of his hand. Sandyman stood glowering at his son, and he raked Frodo and Samwise with the same glare.

"What are you doin', lolly-a-gagging around here with the gentry and the service? There is work to be done, boy! I told ye to unload that lumber!" He seized Ted by the ear and hauled him away before he could utter a protest or explanation. Frodo watched them go sadly.

"Well, it was worth the effort, lad," said Bilbo. He had come up behind the young hobbits and witnessed the tableau. "I am proud of you, Frodo." He patted the young hobbit on the shoulder. "How about a pint of that ale for an old hobbit, Samwise? Ponto had talked me dry, and he still isn't convinced. And now Walt is worried that he'll lose his job, and I don't want it." Bilbo sighed, accepting the mug of ale that Sam brought him, "Thank you, Samwise! You saved my life!" He drank deeply, and sighed again. "Where is that father of yours? Vegetable judging? Well, I have to see this gi-enormous 'tater he has grown! The talk is all over the Fair. See you lads later!" and with that, he rose and walked away.

They finished their ale and set out again. Neither felt very hungry anymore, so they walked around looking at all the hobbits milling about; ladyhobbits dressed in fine array, and gentlehobbits in coats and vests, poking among the wares displayed under canopies of white and blue and yellow. They saw a group of Dwarves assembling a forge near the craft tent and hurried over to watch them work. Frodo had met a few dwarves, as Bilbo had many friends in the Blue Mountains and Erebor, where Lonely Mountain rose in the mists. Seeing them put Frodo in a mind to tell tales, and he hauled Sam away to the open-air pub, where a tale-telling contest was underway.

Isingrim Took was telling a tale when they arrived, and frowned when his audience began to chatter as Frodo joined the circle, sitting on the grass with Sam just behind him. They settled down and listened as the speaker continued, telling a story about his great- great- grandfather Isingrim Took the second (or third, the story kept changing). When he finished the tale, everyone applauded politely.

"Good tale, 'Grim," said Frodo, nudging Samwise slightly with his elbow. "I was rather hoping to hear a faerie story."

"Hurumph!" grunted Isingrim, as he glared at Frodo and the chuckling Sam. "Faerie tales are for children, to keep them in bed at night and out of trouble! We spin tales for older ears here, Baggins!"

"Then you probably don't want to hear about Fafred Proudfoot and the Faerie Tiger," said Frodo with a feigned sigh, making as if to rise and leave. The other hobbits in the circle began to stamp their feet, chanting. "_**Bag**_-gins! _**Bag**_-gins! _**Bag**_-gins!"

"Well... if you insist," said Frodo. Tossing Sam his coat, he spun into a tale. His audience listened raptly; even Isingrim was hanging on his words. Sam had stuffed a corner of his tunic in his mouth. They watched as Frodo enacted the parts of the tale, changing his voice for each character. He mimed the meeting with the Faerie Tiger in the woods, and how Fafred Proudfoot climbed the tree to escape being eaten. Laughter sprinkled the ring of listeners, and others paused and gathered round, attracted by the merriment.

Just as Fafred had tricked the Faerie Tiger into chasing its tail around the tree, three bells sounded out on the fields, signaling the beginning of the races. It was almost 3 o'clock! Frodo was late for his footrace!

"I'll finish the story later," he said, and to the exasperation of his audience, Frodo took off at a run. Sam scurried behind him as fast as he could, carrying the forgotten jacket.

Frodo arrived at the leveled field just as the other runners were assembling. He stripped off his vest, tunic and shirt, as the competitors ran naked to the waist. He hurried to a place along the starting line. Sam came behind slower, gathering his discarded clothing.

Merry Brandybuck was there, the youngest runner competing that day. He gave Frodo a grin and a nod. There were a couple of Tooks, and a lanky Burrows Frodo remembered from last year. Ted Sandyman stood there also, wearing a light sleeveless shirt. He was stretching his arms and avoiding Frodo's eye.

"Do me proud, Frodo lad!" Bilbo called from behind the young hobbit. Frodo grinned and waved, not looking because Claude Downs had lifted his bell and was bringing the small hammer down to start the race. Just before it struck, Frodo heard Bilbo say, "I say, Mr. Maggot! I did not know you were coming to the Fair this year. Is that a new dog?"

Adrenaline that Frodo could not control surged through him, and he took off running as the bell pealed the start. He left the other runners in his dust and reached the finish line with more energy to go on, but he stopped, laughing breathlessly at his clever Uncle's trick.

"You really wanted to win that wager, didn't you?" Frodo accused him. Bilbo laughed and handed Frodo a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face.

"I just wanted to see the look on the Thain's face when he lost his wager with me. Get cleaned up and dressed, Frodo, and meet us at the pub. Paladin's brought his son, and you should have a greeting for his wife, too."

"Yes, sir," Frodo said agreeably. As he bathed his face with the water barrel, he noticed the hill above the Town Hole where a skeletal structure of wood was being assembled. Frodo wondered what it was all about.

"Good run!" Frodo felt Merry pound his back playfully. He wrestled with the young Brandybuck, dunking his head in the trough of water. "Leave off, Baggins!" cried Merry, "I won five copper pennies with that run!"

"You bet against yourself?" Frodo was appalled.

"No, Folco Boffin bet against me, the rogue, but he felt so bad about it he split his winning with me! I would have got naught if I won!"

"Just a pat and a mug of beer... which sounds good right now! Come on, I am going to meet Peregrin now." Frodo slipped on his shirt, then Sam held his vest for him to thread his arms into.

"Oh, that lad," Merry said, pulling his shirt over his damp hair, "He is going to be a wild Took when he grows up… if Paladin doesn't lock him in a wardrobe for the rest of his days!" Merry regaled Frodo with stories of the child's exploits to date, as they walked to the pub.

Frodo shook his head in wonder. "He is only two years old, Merry!"

"Two and a half, and he can tell you the days and hours, too. He'll make a great Thain someday; that's what Saradoc says."

Frodo pulled on his jacket and smoothed his wild curls as they walked. The race had awakened his hunger and he hoped that he could find an odd thing to eat once they reached the pub. Merry walked along side him, chattering unceasingly about the things that had happened since last Frodo had visited Bucklebury. Sam plodded along behind, wanting nothing more than to spend the day with Frodo, besides a spot of late lunch or early tea.

At the pub, Frodo bowed low to his cousins Paladin and Eglantine Took. Aunt'ine, as Frodo had always called her, placed a round squirming hobbit-lad in Frodo's arms. Peregrin stopped wriggling and stared up at his cousin with huge green eyes, as if he were the strangest thing he had ever seen in his young life.

"Quite a handful, Aunt'ine," Frodo said, then he looked down into Peregin's face. Gently he said to him, "So you are Pippin, are you? You weigh as much as a bushel of apples, you do!

Pippin watched him, smiled when Frodo spoke to him. He wriggled out of Frodo's hold and walked steadily to his mother, wrapping himself in her velvet skirts, but for his head and his eyes that never left Frodo's face. Merry clucked his tongue. "That is the first time I have ever seen him become shy!"

"And most likely the last!" everyone laughed as Pippin began to wander around his mother, never letting go of her skirt. He twisted it tight around her legs walking one way, then unwound it and wrapped around the other way. Eglantine just stood still and smiled down at her son.

They found seats and began to chat, and to Frodo's relief they received an early tea, with cakes and wonderful cream and herb-dipped vegetables, very tasty with tea on a late afternoon. Frodo ate his fill and began to feel drowsy, but he was having so much fun he did not want to break up the party. He closed his eyes for just a second, it seemed, when Bilbo touched his elbow gently.

"Lad, why don't you take your drowsy friends up the hill and catch a nap under the trees? Tonight is Bonfire Night, and I imagine you will all be up until the crows cry at dawn, so best to catch a wink or two. Run off now, lads!"

Midsummer's Night

Bonfire Night! Bonfire Night!  
Smell of grass and fuel wood burning  
Dancing 'neath the stars so bright  
Above our heads now turning

Bonfire Night! Bonfire Night!  
All the elders are asleep  
Their weary heads on pillows alight  
Beneath the blankets heap'd

This is the hour, this is the time  
All the children running wild  
We tend the fires, we sing the rhyme  
On this night of Summer mild

**V**

The hills were ablaze as if each housed a dragon. Sam was watching with round eyes. This was his first midsummer at the Free Fair and he had ever seen such a sight before.

In Hobbiton, Midsummer bonfire was a single heaped stack of waste wood and branches in the Bywater square, and most of the adults stayed up at the Dragon while the younger hobbits tended the fire, watching to make sure that no cinders or strong winds spread the flames to the houses or fields nearby. Usually the fire burned low quickly and was no more than a bed of embers the next morning. All the young hobbits would be sleeping on the grass behind the inn.

Here there were ten, maybe twenty fires each as large as the one in Bywater, and they climbed into the sky. By each fire an adult hobbit stood, silent and alert, with a pail of sand and a pail of water and a shovel, with a horn strung round his neck. They watched as the young hobbits kept the fires burning with a supply of wood, each eager to wait out the night and see the sun rise. It was custom, if the fires burned all the night through till dawn, good luck and a fine harvest would come to their town that year.

There were plenty of hobbits tending the fires, and more running from one to the next playing games with their friends or singing, toasting snacks over coals and generally running amok through the night. Every young hobbit had been drilled in responsible behaviour by their parents before they were allowed to stay up all night. And here and there, in the darkness could be seen a taller figure, walking or standing, making sure that no harm came to the innocent merrymakers. If one watched carefully, the hedgerows would light up with the glow of a drawn pipe, and sweet smoke drifted across the gleam of the Lithe pyres.

Frodo loved this holiday. He had to constantly remind himself to walk slowly so that Sam could keep up. Merry was trotting beside them, running backwards and all but dancing in his excitement. Of course, Bonfire Night in Bucklebury was _much_ better than anywhere in the Shire, according to the proud young hobbit. Frodo did not recall any special occurrences during his childhood in Buckland, but he did not say as much. He enjoyed the bottomless enthusiasm that his cousin was capable of generating, so he overlooked Merry's tendency to boast.

Frodo had a habit on Bonfire Night. He liked to visit each fire, adding something to the flames. It was sort of a ritual he had made for himself; each year that he did this his luck seemed to improve. Not that he had many things he needed to wish for, being well taken-care of by his uncle. He wished mostly for good things for his friends, fortune for the poor hobbits, good weather for the farmers, rain for the flowers, clear skies for viewing the stars. He wrote his wishes down on little scraps of parchment throughout the year, twisting them into tiny rolls and keeping them in a small box. Then on this night he filled his pockets with old wishes and began his rounds. This summer he wondered, as he groped in his pocket, if he had enough wishes for all the fires he saw. It seemed the whole horizon was alive with orange and red flames.

At their third stop, Frodo encountered the group who had been listening to his tale earlier that day. They insisted that he finish the tale, as they were all eager to hear the ending. Actually, they required that he begin again and tell it properly through the finish. He obliged them, enjoying the way the firelight played on the faces of his audience. When he told of the Faerie Tiger running and running, trying to catch his tail around the tree, until he ran himself into a puddle of butter, and Fafred Proudfoot slid down the tree trunk in triumph, scooping up a pail of sweet tiger-butter for his poor starving family; Frodo's listeners roared with approval and applauded, then they scattered in all directions as the midnight bell tolled in the White Downs dell.

Frodo grabbed Sam and they ran with Merry into the darkness. Bad luck it was, to be caught in the firelight when the twelfth bell struck!

More fires and more wishes burned. Sam was walking slower and Merry was falling into longer and longer lapses of silence, his face thoughtful. As Frodo went forward to kindle yet another twist of paper, Merry leaned over and spoke softly to Sam beyond the edge of the light. He whispered excitedly and Sam listened, chewing his lip. He shook his head as Merry asked him something, then laughed aloud. When Frodo turned, they broke apart. Frodo wiped the smoke from his eyes. He dug in his pocket and found only one wish left, twisted into a knot.

Frodo remembered this wish. He had tied it differently than the others because he devoutly wanted this wish to come about. He grew a touch melancholy as he remembered the day he had written it down...

Bilbo had been up in the wee hours of the night, writing in his study in the big red-bound book. Frodo had woken and crept to his door to peek in on him. Bent over the ledger, his hair grey but not as grey as it should have been for a hobbit of his years; Bilbo's face was full of a memory.

Frodo imagined that he knew which memory it was. Alone in that dark tunnel, free air on one end and a dragon on the other, Bilbo had went ahead toward the dragon, taking those brave steps to prove to himself his own worth. That moment had left a mark on the hobbit, one deeper than the burn of dragon's breath or scars from a fall or a sword stroke.

Frodo had made a wish as he watched his uncle sitting with ink drying on his quill, reliving that moment with fire in his eyes; he had wished that his uncle would never, never leave him.

Frodo knew it was a selfish wish, and that it could never come true, but he could not throw the paper away. It seemed to have no cost, just to hope beyond wisdom. He kept it in his pocket always, and now he strode toward the last bonfire rubbing the soft parchment between his fingers.

Dawn was not far away. Sam was sleepy and Merry distracted. The fires were burning low, some mere coals with a blue dancing of flames waving like pendants in the grey air.

As Frodo stepped forward, he saw someone standing next to the fire that seemed familiar to him. He walked round and was surprised to find Bilbo on the other side of the smoke, feeding posters with his face painted on them to the flames.

Frodo laughed. "Find them all, did you?" he asked.

Bilbo chuckled. "Yes, and the pile of them that Ponto has been tacking up to replace the ones I took down! That is the last of them." He flung the stack into the fire, then dusted his palms. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his pipe.

"You would make a great mayor, uncle," said Frodo, "but I prefer to keep you to myself, to be honest." Frodo drew out the twist of paper, looked at it with a smile, and tossed it into the fire on top of Bilbo's burning likenesses.

"Me, too!" agreed Bilbo. "And tomorrow I shall take steps to insure that I shall not be elected mayor. But you needn't worry about it at all, my lad. Did you make all the fires tonight?"

"Yes, Bilbo. I am finished."

"Let's go back to the smial, then. Gilly will have a breakfast for us and your friends, you can all sleep-in while we grown-ups jaw and dicker about the Fair. I will see you in the Lore Garden in the afternoon. I must speak to Goodbody about rebinding the Great Tookish Tales. By then, everything should be ready for Thursday."

"What will happen, uncle?" asked Frodo with a yawn. He wished he could be more alert, but the growing sunlight seemed to be weighing down his eyelids. He wondered if he could stay awake long enough to eat breakfast.

"Nothing you need worry about, dear boy! Unasked is unheard, and unlooked-for unseen!" and Bilbo winked at Frodo and laid an arm across his shoulders as they walked toward White Downs.

Trailing behind them came Merry and Sam, alert and listening carefully.

**VI**

The next morning was one as blissful as Frodo could remember. He slept late and ate well, courtesy of Gilly and Posca, who lingered around the house keeping children near the smial while the elders ran the Fair. Frodo was curious about what they did all morning, so that they wanted all young hobbits out from underfoot. But he would not find out, not this year. He relaxed in the parlour with Merry and Sam, and all the young cousins, still too tired from their nocturnal activities to be very rambunctious or mischievous.

After noon, Frodo went to the Lore Garden. He parted with Sam at the porch. Sam's Gaffer needed him in the Vegetable patch, where the competitions for "Best Grown" vegetables, fruits, and flowers were preparing to begin. Merry tagged along with Frodo, not so much curious about the books as eager to learn what Bilbo was up to, though of course he did not say as much aloud. He picked up a book when they walked into Goodbody's house, feigning interest. The master promptly snatched it out of his hands, bonking him lightly on his hard little head with it; a reminder not to touch without asking. Merry grinned and rubbed his head, apologizing with a bow.

Mollified, the master turned back to Bilbo and Paladin, both sitting at his desk where they had been having a discussion. Frodo listened for a while, then taking up a small volume he led Merry outside to the porch, where the young hobbits sat while Frodo had Merry read to him.

Merry was well-lettered for a hobbit his age. After adopting Frodo, Bilbo had pressured Saradoc to arrange formal lessons for teaching the young hobbits to read in Bucklebury. Not all families were keen to allow their children to participate in this instruction, preferring to give their own children such learning, when and if they found the necessity or the time. But some few, Merry included, showed much enthusiasm to learn, as least in the winter-time when there was nothing more interesting to do outside.

Merry read slowly but clearly and Frodo was pleased with his improvement. He felt that the joy of reading should be everyone's pleasure, not just the upper-class hobbits. He was hoping to get Samwise and some of the other young hobbits from poorer families to receive more learning, too. He had discussed it with Bilbo before, but here were some things about hobbit customs that he did not yet understand. Why was it such a bad thing, to teach someone to read?

Merry had stopped reading when he realized that Frodo was not listening anymore. His cousin's eyes were fixed on the distance, gazing across the fields where a faint breeze was rippling the tents and barely lifting the pendants. On a hill nearby, noisy hammering and the shriek of saws biting wood sounded. Merry nudged Frodo from his daydreaming and pointed, "What on earth are they building above Town Hole, cousin?"

Frodo turned and focused his wayward attention on the activity. Yesterday it had been but a scare-crow structure of beams, but the work had been underway busily today and it was taking shape quickly. "It looks like a tall, narrow house! Who would want to live in such a strange structure?"

"It is a bell-tower, ninnyhammers!" came a voice from behind them. Ted Sandyman was standing there, a bucket of nails in his meaty hand. "Mayor Whitfoot ordered it built. Wants it finished before Wednesday, he does." He set down the heavy pail of nails, wiped his right hand on his shirt and held it out to Frodo. Frodo took his hand gladly, but winced as the strong young hobbit squeezed so hard as to nearly crush his fingers. "I appreciate what you did for me yesterday, Baggins," whispered Ted tightly, "but it is no favour to me to be a friend of yours. We don't belong to the same class, and never will. Keep your distance, rich boy, and I'll keep mine."

Merry began to protest, and Ted pushed him so that he fell back into the dust. Frodo's face grew dark and he returned Ted's grip until the younger hobbit yelped and jerked his hand away.

"If you do not care to be civil and friendly, that is your choice, Sandyman," said Frodo coldly, "I will not beg for friendship, but do not think that I will stand idly by while you torment those weaker than yourself." Frodo gave Merry a hand up, turned his back on Ted and walked away. Ted watched them go, rubbing his hand and frowning.

"Wow, Frodo," chattered Merry, slapping the dirt from his trousers as they walked. They were heading toward the corner of a nearby garden, well away from the Fair and out of sight of the houses. Frodo did not speak, but walked into the trees to a shady spot and sat down. His face was still flushed and his fists were clenched so that his knuckles were white. "What's wrong, Frodo?" asked Merry. He had never seen his cousin like this. "Did Ted hurt your hand?"

"No, Merry. I am just very angry and I need a moment to calm down. Let's just sit here for a while, and then we'll go and find us some honeycakes or something."

"All right, Frodo," said Merry uncertainly. He knew somehow that Frodo would prefer to be alone for a little while. "Let me take the book back to Master Goodbody. I'll tell Bilbo..."

"Nothing. You will say nothing of this to Bilbo or anyone, Meriadoc Brandybuck, if you have any respect for me at all. This is a private matter. Please," Frodo added, his blue eyes serious and piercing. Merry thought he had never seen his cousin look so sad.

"Yes, of course Frodo. However you want. I will be right back." The young hobbit fled to the house, slipped in and placed the book on the shelf where Frodo had taken it and left again, without the three adults noticing him at all. They were deeply engrossed in their talk. He walked slowly back toward the garden, giving Frodo the quiet moments he needed.

Frodo thrust the incident behind him and collected Merry, and took him around the Fair. Together, they did all the things Merry enjoyed, so that the young hobbit seemed to completely forget about the altercation. Frodo kept them away from Town Hole, going to the Gardening Tent to see how the awards had been distributed. Widow Threadgirdle had indeed come away with the ribbon for "Best Rose in Bloom", finally dethroning Vitra Hornblower, the previous winner. Anise Brockhouse had produced the "Best Gourd", a pumpkin so large that it barely fit in the back of the waggon and needed four strong hobbits to lift it.

Sam greeted them with a beaming smile of pride; his gaffer had taken the award for the "Best Grown Tater" and he happily showed off the massive thing. Merry wondered aloud how many chips it would produce, if they were to slice it up. Sam hushed him with a barely suppressed giggle.

"Now, don't be a-sayin' that where he can hear you, Mr. Merry. I heard him talkin' to the thing this morning. I think he named it 'Burt'."

The young hobbits roared with laughter, earning them a coarse invitation to "get out of 'ere if yer not bein' useful" from the Gaffer, who was smiling as he said this. He touched his forelock to Frodo and Merry with respect and ruffled his son's hair affectionately. He gave Sam a copper penny and pushed him out of the tent. "And stay away from Town Hole, lads," he called to them as they ran off. "Nothing up there for young hobbits to get into. Mind yourself, Gamgee!"

"Yes, sir!" answered Sam.

They fell out of their run to a slow walk, for the crowds in the Fair grounds had grown as thick as the air in the spending afternoon. Every hobbit was busy getting somewhere, and in the press of folk, Frodo began to feel rather stifled. "Let's get up where there is some air," he said, "until the crowds stop milling about. There are folks walking on my feet more than I am!"

They retreated to a low hill that afforded a fine view of the tents and lifted them above the noise, swept with clean air from the Downs. They lay on the grass and spoke of the things they had overheard that day.

"Tomorrow is Wednesday," said Merry, "the last day of the voting. Maybe that is what the gammers and gaffers are all excited about. Saradoc says that Will Whitfoot may have to step down for your uncle, Frodo."

'I hope not', thought Frodo, but aloud he said, "I don't think we need worry about that, Merry. Bilbo doesn't care for the honour and he is confident that Will shall be mayor after the ballots are counted Thursday."

"I would vote from Mr. Bilbo, sir, if I were old enough," said Sam boldly. He was laying on his back on the grass behind the bench where Frodo and Merry were sitting, his hands behind his head, staring at the sky. "Looks a bit like rain, Mr. Frodo. You want me to run to Mr. Posco's home and bring your cloak?"

"No, thank you, Sam," said Frodo. "I think we'll head back to the Lore Garden and do some reading while the daylight holds. Maybe Bilbo has finished his discussion with Master Goodbody."

"You two go on," said Merry, standing and stretching. "I have no head for books today. I am going round the Fair again, and try to find some fun." He wandered off with a jaunty wave.

"That sounds like trouble," whispered Frodo to Sam with a smile.

They jogged back to the Lore Garden. The sky seemed to be taking Sam's suggestion, and was growing dark and a cool wind was picking up the pendants and stirring the flaps of the tents with a fickle breeze. Their path took them past Town Hole, and they slowed to gaze up at the tall tower being built there.

Sam's brow was puckered, but he made no comment. Frodo shielded his eyes and saw Sandyman and his son, and several other hobbits, labouring hard to finish the building. It stood above all the other hills like a finger or a limbless, dead tree, breaking the rolling landscape with its sharp angles. 'It would be striking, certainly,' thought Frodo, smiling at the pun. 'A striking bell-tower; I must remember to tell Bilbo that one.'

They were just turning away when they heard the strangest sound ever to touch their ears. A groan, like a giant in pain, or the very earth itself in the throes of an illness, seemed to be coming from the ground beneath their feet. Frodo gasped as the bell-tower above them began to shudder. Small figures could be seen running away from the building, crying out in alarm. The mouth of Town Hole was right in front of Frodo and Sam. A great cloud of air, thick with white chalk and dust, belched out of the opening, blowing the two young hobbits off of their feet with its force, and flattening several tents that were also in line with the door.

Frodo found himself flat on his back, and saw the tower collapse like a child's game of twigs, and the once tall hill of Town Hole sank in upon itself. The air filled with billows of white smoke. Frodo coughed. It was difficult to breath. His vision began to swim.

His next moment of awareness was of being slapped sharply across the face. For an instant, he thought that Ted had come and was threatening Merry again, and he woke up with a fist raised to return the enmity, but he saw his uncle, not Ted, and he relaxed and was immediately seized with coughing. Bilbo wore a worried expression, and fanned Frodo with his hand to give him more air. "Frodo? Can you hear me, lad?"

Frodo tried to say yes, but his throat was choked with dust. He managed only to nod his head. Bilbo shouted to someone to bring some water to him, and Frodo saw next to him Sam laying in Paladin's arms. The Thain was gently wiping his friend's face with a cloth. Sam seemed scared but unhurt.

Someone handed Bilbo a wineskin, and he held it to Frodo's lips. Dry and bitter, it was, but cool and cleansing; Frodo drank to rinse the chalk from his mouth. He spat the first mouthful out, as Bilbo advised him, then drank again. Bilbo handed the wineskin to Paladin, for Sam to drink. "Not as good as water, but it will do," joked Bilbo, though his face was serious and pinched. He touched Frodo's arms and legs, asking if he had pain anywhere. Frodo shook his head; he was not hurt.

The sky began to weep, and the dust started to clear from the air. Frodo began to breathe easier, though now he was chilled as his clothes became soaked. Bilbo slipped an arm under him and helped him walk toward a tent that had not been collapsed, where he could sit out the rain. Frodo sank down gratefully, He felt as though something heavy was sitting on his chest. Paladin carried Samwise and set him next to Frodo. The younger hobbit seemed unharmed, merely stunned. Apparently Frodo had inadvertently shielded him from the full force of the shock, knocking him down as he himself was flung to the ground. Sam reached for Frodo's hand, and they sat together beneath the tarpaulin, shivering and staring at the ruin of the Town Hole.

"That tower was too heavy!" they heard someone exclaim. "The whole Hole has collapsed. Will was in there, and how many others... who knows! How terrible!"

Frodo overheard this and he thought that he should feel bad, but he was having trouble understanding what had happened. It still seemed like a dream. Then someone shouted again, and a cry of wonder went up; a lone figure, very much the fattest hobbit Frodo had ever seen, came wandering out of the ruin of the Town Hole.

He was covered entirely with white chalk, so that he appeared to be a flour dumpling with legs and arms, staggering around when he should be lying in a stew. Frodo could not stifle the giggle that bubbled from his lips. It made him cough again, but he could not stop. It was positively the funniest thing he had ever seen.

Sam began to chuckle, too, relieved that Frodo was all right, and at seeing Mayor Whitfoot looking like a plump ghost waddling out of the ruins of his chalky tomb. He covered his mouth and snickered, though Frodo was making more than enough noise to cover the sound of his mirth.

Bilbo hastened forward to take Will's arm, and led him to the tent out of the rain. The moisture had turned the chalk into pasty clay that clung to the Mayor's face and clothes. As he came nearer, Frodo struggled to regain control of himself. He breathed deeply and drank some more from the wineskin that Paladin held for him.

"Steady, lad. Just relax and keep breathing. You have had all the Fair today that you need."

Frodo nodded, and closed his eyes. The wine was making his head spin, and he was beginning to feel a little sick. As his consciousness lapsed, he heard Sam begging him to wake up, but he could not answer. He wondered what the bells would have sounded like, ringing in the tall tower above the Downs.

**VII **

With the collapse of the Town Hole, Michael Delving was in chaos. Will Whitfoot had been the only person in the smial when the weight of the new bell-tower had caused it to cave-in; all the folk had been out in the Fairgrounds, participating in Barter Day. With the children out of the way, the older hobbits would go about, haggling for items and trading them for others, hoping to end the day with some useful or valuable item. For this was the game that the adults played, the mystery that Frodo had a mind to discover but now, he would not know for another year at least.

Bilbo had bundled him up and taken him back to Posco's hole, forgetting entirely about the campaign and all his other business. The cave-in had caused all the yards of air inside to rush suddenly out, like a bagpipe squeezed, and all that air had blown out through the opening of the front door. It had lifted the young hobbits and tossed them like leaves. They were near buried in chalk and half suffocated, and lucky not to have been broken or blinded. Bilbo was not taking any chances with the lads. He brought a doctor to see the children and kept them in bed for several days. The Gaffer had been moved in to be nearby so he could watch over his son. Bilbo insisted that the two young ones remain together as they convalesced. Sam recovered more quickly and was up helping care for Frodo after a couple days, where Gilly and Posca would permit him.

Frodo was grateful to lie abed. The heaviness in his chest was oppressive, and he felt weak and lightheaded and his ears rang strangely. He slept and drank the tea the doctor gave him and Sam was always near, sleeping on a trundle bed that Bilbo had had brought into Frodo's room. After Frodo felt better, Merry and some of his other friends came in and told him what had occurred during the last days of the Fair, and how it happened that Will Whitfoot, now affectionately known as Flour Dumpling, retained his title of Mayor of the Shire.

When the Town Hole had collapsed, Will had been inside working on his speech for the Mayoral Debate. He was scheduled to face Bilbo the following evening for a public discussion where the two candidates would talk of what plans they had for the Shire. The hobbits voting were invited to attend and listen, and thus base their selection on the hobbit they thought would bring about the best government for the next seven years.

Will had been worried; Bilbo was famous and rather popular, thought his views were somewhat extreme; many folks thought him most unsuitable for the office, with his adventurous tendencies and all. What no one knew was that the whole nomination of Bilbo was but an attempt by the Sackville-Bagginses to get Bilbo out of Hobbiton with his contentious young cousin that he called a nephew. Lotho wanted to be Master of the Hill and to live in Bag End very much. He persuaded Ponto to place the nomination, and had funded the campaign secretly to promote Bilbo Baggins as Mayor, even though Bilbo did not want the office.

After the incident, most folk felt rather sorry for poor Will, and they did not have the heart to vote him out of office. It was bad enough that his home in the Town Hole was in ruins, and would have to be dug out and relocated. The debate was cancelled and when the ballots were counted, it was nearly unanimous that Will should remain as Mayor. When the relieved hobbit hosted the Farewell Banquet, he toasted his opponent and asked that everyone attending extend their prayers for the full recovery of Bilbo's nephew and his little friend.

⌂

Bit by bit it came out to Frodo all these things that had happened. He remembered very little of it at all, but Merry and Sam with their clever ears had overheard much gossip, and had pieced together a tale for him. They spoke it to him as he lay propped up with pillows. He was still breathing with some difficulty and had a persistent cough that was keeping him in bed.

Bilbo had been planning with his friends the Thain and Opus Goodbody what he would discuss at the Debate the next day when the disaster struck. They had heard the noise, and the windows of the Lore Garden had been rattled so hard that many panes had cracked and fallen out. Bilbo saw the two young hobbits borne down by the concussion of the blast. He had run out to them before even the tower had fully collapsed, his heart clenched in fear that one of the small figures might have been Frodo.

Sure enough, when he clawed through the pile of chalky dirt, he uncovered his nephew. Beneath him lay Samwise, stunned and shaken.

Paladin reached them after Bilbo and took young Gamgee in his arms to see if he was injured. Sam had a bump on his head from hitting the ground when Frodo had been thrown against him. Bilbo turned Frodo over gently. Frodo's nose and ears were bleeding and he appeared not to be breathing.

For a fraction of a second, Bilbo was afraid that Frodo was dead, and almost his heart stopped within him. He touched the lad's throat with a trembling hand, feeling for the faint fluttering of a heartbeat. Bilbo shook him gently, then more firmly when the lad did not respond. Recalling suddenly what Balin had done when they had fished Bombur from the enchanted waters into which he had fallen in Mirkwood, when they had feared that the corpulent Dwarf had drowned. Bilbo dealt Frodo a blow across his pale face, as the Dwarf had done his companion. Frodo had gasped and his eyes had started open. He struggled in Bilbo's arms until he recognized his uncle, then he fell back and began to cough.

⌂

Frodo's friends paused in their tale as he began coughing again, but he waved away the concern on their faces. He covered his mouth and cleared his throat. So much dust had he inadvertently inhaled that even days after the incident, his breathing was still congested. Frodo wiped his eyes with a kerchief and nodded to Merry to continue the tale. Talking was a labour that the doctor had forbidden to the young hobbit for some days yet.

"Well," Merry said, winding up his tale, "They brought you here straight away, and here you are, living like a king while all the rest of us are working like beavers to clean up the Town Hole and the Fair Grounds. I do hope you are enjoying yourself, Frodo," Merry added with a smile, "you always seem to find a plausible excuse to get out of the real work!"

Frodo smiled and mouthed silently, "All part of my plan, Master Brandybuck."

The door opened then, and Bilbo stepped into the room. He smiled to see Frodo sitting up, and patted Merry on the head. "Hullo, lads! Meriadoc, why don't you take Samwise here to the kitchen and see if you two can talk Mrs. Bolger out of some tea and cakes for us all?" He closed the door behind them, then sat down in the chair next to Frodo's bed. "Feeling better, lad?" he asked.

Frodo nodded, smiling at his uncle. "If you feel better yet tomorrow, we might go home. Doctor Tarsus had granted leave for me to move you, if you feel up to it. Would you like to go home?"

Frodo nodded and he caught Bilbo's arm, so that Bilbo leaned close enough to hear his soft whisper. "I am sorry to hear you did not get to be Mayor, uncle," he said, blue eyes twinkling with humour.

Bilbo laughed and mussed his hair gently. "I have job of work enough for me governing you, Frodo Baggins! Oh, and I nearly forgot to tell you... don't expect a visit from your Uncle Otho and Aunt Lobelia. I am afraid they left this morning, after hearing the doctor give his leave for you to go home. They seemed rather put off, I must say. And I gave your regards to Paladin and Elgantine when they went back to Tuckborough. They promised to bring little Peregrin to Hobbiton after you fully recover, so that you can get to know your cousin better."

Sam and Merry returned then, each bearing a tray and Gilly came with them. She poured Frodo a cup of tea from his "special pot" and stirred in a generous dollop of honey. They all sat down and kept Frodo company until his eyes grew heavy, then they crept out softly to let him sleep. There was a long ride to look to on the morrow.


	9. Ch 9 Rain and Roses

**The Heir of the Hill**  
**Chapter 8: Rain and Roses**

_In Four Parts_

**I  
**  
It was a fair day in spring in the Shire. Frequent soft rains had woken the slumbering grasses and flowers with benign kisses, with liberal draughts of sunlight to unfold the leaves. Frodo walked slowly down the Bywater lane, inhaling deeply the scent of moist loam. It was a wonderful, beautiful day, and he was very happy.

He was on his way to Bucklebury. He was long over-due for a visit to his Aunt Mene and Master Rorimac. Uncle Saradoc had sent an invitation to him, urging him to come as soon as winter had faded. He was missed, they said. He felt warm and peaceful, to know that he was so loved.

It had been way too long since he had gone back. Meriadoc usually argued that he should come and visit Frodo, and Merry usually argued very well so it had been almost four years since Frodo had come back to his other home. It was a fine day for walking. Frodo was glad he had talked Bilbo out of driving him in the carriage. A nice long walk would be just the thing after a long restless winter.

The road was dotted with puddles from the night's rain, and Frodo walked around them carefully. There was little traffic this early, though he had seen some wagons rolling toward Bywater loaded with bags of grain and seedlings. The planting would get started early this year, in hopes for a bumper crop at first harvest. Gardening and farming weren't Frodo's chief interests, but eating certainly was one! He had overheard the Gaffer saying that if the weather held soft, this year's gardens could produce more food than ever before recorded. Of course, the Gaffer was rather famous for making such sweeping statements, and then finding blame for the lacking in the drought or plague of locusts or potato bugs or whatever ill might have befallen the season.

'This year might be different,' thought Frodo. He waved to a hobbit that was walking past with a fishing pole over his shoulder. 'If this morning was any sample of what the rest of the year had in store, it would indeed be sweet days ahead!'

A soft patter of rain began as he reached the end of the lane and came to Bywater. He was tempted to stop at the Ivy Bush and wait for it to subside, but it was only a light rain… more like drizzle, really. And if he stopped now, it would be nightfall by the time he reached Frogmorton. He drew up the hood of his cloak and walked on.

The soft rain stopped in a few minutes, but after he had covered maybe half the distance to the next village, dark clouds rolled over the sun and it began to rain in earnest. Frodo pulled his cloak close around him as a wind nipped at him from the east. He cast about for a nearby house to take shelter. It looked like it was going to be a nasty spring storm, having brewed up so quickly.

Some miles down the road a lane opened to the right, and following it Frodo found a small house nestled among some dogwood trees. He ran to the front door and rang the bell, starting to shiver as the temperature began to drop. When no one answered after a moment, he lifted his hand to knock soundly on the painted wooden door.

Just as he did so, it swung open, and Frodo froze so that he would not knock on the pretty hobbit-lass who had just appeared. He dipped a hasty bow.

"Your pardon, miss. I need…" was all he had time to say.

"Come in, sir! Why! You are soaked to the bone! Out of that cloak now, before you catch your death! There is a fire in the kitchen and some water in the kettle. Make yourself a cup of tea while I find you something dry to wear. Come in, come in!" She all but pulled Frodo into the cozy house and closed the door, shutting out the fickle weather.

**⌂**

Once inside, Frodo removed his dripping cloak and coat, which the lass took from his hands. "Th...thank you, miss," he stuttered, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Why, I haven't done nothing yet to be thanked for, sir. Now go and warm yourself by the fire. I will set these things to dry. Your hands are like ice!" She took his cold hand and led him through a short hallway to the kitchen, where the hearth blazed. There were bunches of herbs and peppers hung and drying overhead, and a row of copper kettles shining. A lump of dough lay slowly spreading in a puddle of flour. The kitchen was clean and warm and homey. Frodo could smell cloves and roasting meat.

He stepped to the warmth of the fire gratefully. The lass had disappeared through another door beyond, and he could hear her speaking softly to someone. There was a low murmuring answer in a thin voice.

Frodo was relieved that he was not alone with the lass. He knew it was odd, but women and girls always acted so strangely around him. Older women insisted on mothering him, and young lady hobbits never hardly spoke to him, just peeked at him through their eyelashes and blushed. It made him feel uncomfortable, and he did not know why.

The weather was growing fierce outside. He could hear the wind whipping against the glass of the windows. So much turmoil, when only this morning it had been bright and clear… how quickly change could come!

Minutes passed and the lass did not reappear. Frodo noticed a pile of vegetables lying on the table, cleaned and ready to pare. The dough was starting to look dry. Bilbo had been teaching him about cooking, and he knew that if the mixture was left to dry too long, the bread would be tough. He found a clean smock and tied it over his shirt, then washed his hands in the basin. He attacked the bread first, being careful not to over-knead. He added some yeast and a bit more buttermilk, working the dough deftly. It felt good to be doing something, and his fingers warmed up quickly.

When the lass came into the kitchen, she found Frodo had shaped the bread that was now rising beautifully, and he was scraping vegetables, half-way through the pile. He smiled at her shocked expression.

"It looked like you were making stew, but I figured I better wait to ask before slicing them up." He pointed at the potatoes and carrots with the small knife he had been using.

"Well, actually I was going to make a meat and vegetable pie," she said. She then laughing at Frodo's crestfallen expression. "But stew and bread sound better on such a day as this has become! Thank you for helping. Master Banks feels the change in weather rather poorly, and I needed to build a fire to dry your things and keep him warm."

"Master Banks? Is he your father?" asked Frodo politely.

"No, sir. I come once a day to do for him, until his daughter and her husband return from Nobottle. She is up there helping her sister deliver." She smiled brightly at Frodo, swinging the simmering pot full of beef and spices away from the cooking fire. "And a good thing I was here today, too, or you would be walking in the rain all the way to Frogmorton." She handed Frodo a sharper knife and suggested that he cut the pieces very small, as Master Banks's teeth were not as sharp as his tongue could be. There was a muttering laugh from the other room, and Frodo heard the old hobbit moving about carefully.

Frodo laughed, starting to slice the vegetables neatly as she put away her pie pans and fetched a largish kettle. "So you were making a fire while I was cooking! I think that it should have been better the other way around!" He stopped slicing so suddenly that the hobbit-lass gasped, thinking he had cut himself. "I don't know your name, yet." He wiped his hands on a towel, then bowed to her. "My name is..."

"Gracious, Mr. Baggins, I am sure there is not a lass in the Shire that doesn't know your name, sir." She bobbed a curtsy to him, small pink patches appearing on her cheeks. "And no need to be so formal. My name is Rose Cotton."

Frodo looked at her again, trying to place her face and name. He did not recall her from the young hobbits he knew about Hobbiton. There was a Cotton that the Gaffer spoke of who lived down in Bywater. "Are you Tom Cotton's daughter? Have I met you before?"

Rose laughed merrily, her daisy-yellow hair bobbing around her face in golden ringlets. "I have seen you about town, with your uncle and without. You are quite the adventurer, aren't you? I have also seen you walking at night through the hills. Where were you going this time?"

"Buckland. That is where I used to live, before I was adopted by Bilbo." Frodo found it amazingly easy to talk to Rose, much easier than any of the other lasses he had met since coming to live in Hobbiton. She was young, maybe ten years younger than Frodo; too young it seemed to him to be so sensible and responsible. She was bright, friendly and efficient, working all the while that she chattered away, mending some worn shirts as the stew simmered. And she spoke to him, really spoke to him, and laughed and expressed her mind. The morning faded to noon as they talked about cooking and Hobbiton and the weather and everything, until the meal was ready.

Rose prepared a plate for the Master and served him in his room, but she and Frodo ate in the kitchen. He helped her wash up afterward. He looked out the window and noticed with some regret that the storm had passed, almost as quickly as it had blown up. He sighed.

"No more rain. I guess I should be getting on now. I would wish for more rain if it meant I could spend more time with you, Rosie."

The hobbit-lass laughed and waved away his compliment, though her cheeks bloomed with colour again. For once, Frodo did not find this annoying. She opened her mouth to speak, but her retort was lost as a knock sounded at the door. She rushed to answer it, calling to the Master to stay in his chair. Frodo followed her, curious about who it might be and a little sad that their time together was being interrupted.

To Frodo's shock, Samwise stood outside, draped in a waxed cape and holding an umbrella. Behind him in the lane was a pony trap where Bilbo was sitting, wrapped in thick blankets. Frodo could hear his voice saying, "Is he here, Sam? He must have stopped at one of these houses..."

"Good day, Mistress!" Sam touched his forelock to Rose, bowing clumsily. He seemed to be unable to find any more words to say. He was staring at her as if she were something he had dreamed come to life.

**II  
****  
**Frodo smiled at the look on Sam's face. He was fairly sure that he himself had been wearing the same expression of charmed memorization all morning, watching Rosie as she cooked and chattered. He quietly came up beside Sam as he stood on the doorstep gaping at Rosie. Frodo had to nudge him to get his attention.

"Hullo, Sam! Did you and Bilbo come looking for me?"

Sam wrenched his eyes off of Rosie, who had suddenly become somewhat shy and was half hiding behind the door. "Mr. Frodo, sir! Mr. Bilbo hustled me out of Bagshot Row in the pouring rain, worritted that you were caught out in the gale." Sam's eyes flicked back to Rosie briefly. "I am glad to find you got safe out of the weather, sir."

"Luckily for me, I found this place, and this kind heart let me inside. Rose, this is my friend Samwise Gamgee. His father cares for the garden at Bag End. Sam, this is Rose Cotton, the lady who let me in out of the rain."

"Hullo, Miss Rose," Sam said, his face turning a shade red. "I recall you from time I spent as a lad, playing down Bywater Pool with your brothers Jolly, Nick, and Tom. It is nice to see you again."

Rosie blushed prettily. "It is nice to see you again, too, Sam!" All her clever words and frankness seemed to have disappeared. She was staring steadily at her toes, nervously brushing at the stains on her apron.

"All right, Sam. I am coming. Tell Bilbo I shall be out directly." Sam trotted away, almost tripping over his own feet.

Frodo sighed. It had been such an agreeable morning, in spite of the weather. He was loath to let it end. "Well, Rose, let me give my regards to Master Banks and tell him how grateful I am for allowing me to sample the comforts of his hole, and then, I guess I had better be off, since my escort has arrived!" It was difficult to keep a note of disappointment out of his voice.

Rose seemed to wake from her trance. "Oh, Mr. Frodo! Let me tell him for you, sir." Her sudden formality was also disconcerting. "Master Banks will be resting after his meal. We shouldn't disturb him." She fetched Frodo's cloak and coat, now warm and dry. "Do stop in again if you are ever passing by," Rosie added then, with a touch of her earlier humour and a smile, "Take an umbrella next time!"

Soon they were on their way, not back to Hobbiton as Frodo expected, but onward to Bucklebury. "I will feel more comfortable knowing you are there safe, lad, and not out in this ridiculous weather," Bilbo said, who was now sitting in the back, swathed in wool blankets. Frodo had climbed up and sat next to Sam on the buckboard.

Sam was driving the pony, whistling soundlessly between his teeth. Frodo could see that he had something on his mind. "I guess I was lucky to find Master Banks door today, after the rain got started. Miss Cotton seems a nice hobbit-lass," he ventured to say, watching Sam's expression.

Sam nodded and flicked the reins gently. He said nothing. Frodo was suddenly suspicious that Sam might somehow be jealous. The idea made him want to laugh, but he did not. That might hurt his friend's feelings even more. Frodo thought for a while, watching the miles pass by smoothly. Bilbo was nodding behind him, rocked to a drowse by the rhythm of the wheels.

"Yes, a fine lass she is," continued Frodo, as if no time had passed. "Why, if she hadn't been there to do for Mr. Banks this morning, I would have been soaked through to the skin and shivering in Frogmorton about now, if I wasn't washed into the Water by a spring flood and drowned first! I don't know what I would have done, if she had not answered the door when I knocked."

Sam shifted slightly on the seat. After a few moments he said, "Mr. Banks… he was home during your visit?"

Frodo glanced at Sam in surprise. "Of course! Rosie said that he was not able to get around easily anymore, and that was why she was there helping him while his daughter is away in Nobottle"

The tension suddenly went out of Sam's shoulders, and he began to chuckle softly. He glanced back at Bilbo, asleep now in the bed of the trap. Quietly he said, "Aye, Mr. Frodo. That Rosie is a fine lass. A right proper hobbit-lass and that's a fact, sir."

⌂

Two weeks later, after Frodo had returned to Bag End after his visit in Bucklebury, he saw Rosie again. She was walking with a handsome hobbit-lady at the market. Frodo smiled broadly and bowed to the ladies. Rosie whispered in the woman's ear.

"A pleasure to meet you, Master Baggins. My name is Lily Cotton," the woman said kindly. "Fine weather for the season, isn't it?" They spoke briefly of light matters, Rosie remaining silent, though she did return Frodo's smile brightly.

"I was wondering if perhaps you would care to come to the Bag End for tea one day, Mrs. Cotton?" Frodo said, as they made their goodbyes. "You and Rose? Bilbo and I would welcome the company!"

"Thank you, Mr. Baggins. That sounds lovely. Tomorrow, perhaps?" Mrs. Cotton led her daughter away. Frodo sped home to inform Bilbo. He was thrilled that he would get to speak to Rosie again.

The trouble was—he didn't! Mrs. Cotton and her daughter showed up on the step of Bag End at precisely four o'clock, and they had a lovely meal with fresh nutbread and brewed blackberry tea. Rose had brought a small covered basket filled with scones, which happened to be Frodo's favourite. The young hobbits listened while Bilbo and Mrs. Cotton spoke, but Rosie said nothing outside of "Hullo" and "Thank you", "No, thank you" and "Good-bye". Frodo gradually ceased to try to lure her into a conversation.

After the ladies had left, Frodo was washing up the dishes. Bilbo came into the kitchen and clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you for inviting those lovely lasses to tea, Frodo! It has been a while since I had such a nice afternoon. Mrs. Cotton and her daughter are very nice."

"Yes, Uncle." Frodo answered, distracted.

Bilbo noticed, and he smiled. Young hobbits were so easy to read sometimes. "Miss Rose was very much a proper young lady, I noticed. Shame that it is expected for young hobbits to 'be seen and not heard'. I have always disagreed with that custom, as my raising you can prove! But that is the way of our folk. I expect she will be easier to talk to next time she comes to tea."

Frodo's depression lifted like a sunrise. He dropped his shoulders and exhaled with relief. "Uncle Bilbo, your nutbread was excellent. Mrs. Cotton mentioned that she would like the recipe. Is it all right if I run it over to her home tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes, lad, I think that will be just fine!"

**III**

One breezy day Frodo had gone walking, searching the pastures north of Hobbiton for a path he had not walked before. He had a bag full of bread and cheese for his lunch. He had set out with no more purpose but to see how far he could walk before the sunset caught him out, then try to come back to the hole in time for second supper.

He was crossing a field grown waist-high with sweetgrass, littered with daisies and buttercups. He paused at the top of a rounded hill when he heard someone call his name. Shading his eyes, he looked around and saw Rosie waving, wading through the tall grass with a lamb under her arm.

She was laughing as she crested the hill. She set the lamb down and sent it off toward the herd with a pat. There were white daisies in her shimmering hair, and she walked fearlessly up to Frodo and pushed him down the hill.

He pulled her down behind him, and they both rolled through the grass, laughing merrily. Frodo gasped and opened his bag, "You crushed my lunch, you silly wight!"

Rosie giggled and said, "Flat bread tastes better!"

Frodo watched her run and play in the field, trying to catch butterflies in her hands without crushing their wings. He was glad to see the young hobbit did not have to work all of the time. Children should be allowed to **be **children, he had heard his uncle say many times. This was what a hobbit-lass of her age should be doing, playing and singing in the soft country. Frodo watched her frolicking, relishing the innocent beauty that radiated from her like sunlight.

"What are you doing in my meadow, Frodo Baggins?" she sang as she ran, scattering flower-petals.

"_Your _meadow? Well," Frodo laughed, turning as she skipped around him. "I was looking for a fäerie princess. I think I have found her."

Rosie dropped her flowers, "I am no fäerie! I don't have wings or grant wishes!"

Frodo laughed. "Real fäeries don't either. I have met a few, so I can tell you so."

Rosie's eyes grew wide with wonder. "You have not! Have you really?"

"Yes," answered Frodo honestly. "I have met and spoken to a few Elves with my uncle, and once or twice on my own, on a day just like today."

Rosie was enchanted. "My dad says that there aren't any more Elves around here. Jolly says that Elves are not real."

So Frodo told Rosie about his first meeting with the Elves, and how they when they spoke they sounded like they were singing, and when they sang it sounded like rare music beyond all description. As he told her tales, the lamb came wandering back, bleating playfully and nibbling on the remains of Frodo's bread.

They were laying in the grass, watching the puffy white clouds sail overhead. The lamb was curled up across Frodo's legs, and Rosie was weaving a daisy chain wreathe.

"Frodo, can you keep a secret?"

Frodo opened his eyes. He had almost been asleep when he heard Rosie's soft voice. "Aye, lass. I can."

Rosie placed the ring of white flowers on her head. "I am going to get married someday!"

Frodo rolled over, rousing the lamb, who uttered a bleat of a complaint and went to lay on Rosie's lap. "That is no secret! I can tell by looking at you that you will marry and have many fine children someday."

"Yes, but I know _who_ I am going to marry, and he doesn't even know it yet!" Mischief glinted in those merry eyes.

Frodo was silent for a while, thinking. "Can I ask you a question, Rose?"

"Sure!"

"Why do you never speak to me when anyone is around?"

Rose smiled at him as if he were funny in the head. "Because it is not proper, silly!"

"And now it is?" She nodded her agreement exuberantly, dislodging her flowers. They were silent for a while, listening to the buzz of bees in the meadow and the calls of birds in the distant trees.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Of course!"

"This person you are going to marry… it isn't me, is it?" he asked hesitantly.

Rosie sat up with a laugh, tossing her flower circlet at Frodo. "Gracious no! I do adore you, Frodo! You speak to me like I am an adult, and listen when I talk, but you are _so old!_"

Frodo laughed with relief and placed the wreath on his own head. "Who is it, then?"

"I won't say, unless you tell me a secret of yours, first."

"I don't have any secrets, Rose."

"Then tell me something about yourself that no one else knows."

"That is the same thing as a secret!"

"No, it isn't. Tell me something you have seen, or wished for, or dreamed. Something no one else knows except you."

Frodo pondered a number of responses, from silly to serious. Then one thought came to him, and he leaned close to whisper, "I want to go to Rivendell someday."

"What is Rivendell?"

"The place where Elrond Half-Elven lives, in a beautiful valley in the mountains far away. There is music and light, and many Elves living there. Uncle Bilbo told me about it, and someday, I want to go there and see it." Frodo looked at her and grinned, "All right, I told you my secret, now you tell me—who is this lucky hobbit whom you are going to marry?"

Rosie blushed and removed the flowers from Frodo's head, placing them on her own again as if crowning herself queen. She sang a rhyme to Frodo:

"If my heart were to be cloven in two,  
Half of it would already belong only to you.  
But ever since first he looked into my eyes  
My heart belongs ever to my faithful Samwise."

Frodo smiled. He reached out and straightened the ring of daisies on Rosie's golden hair. "That is a lovely poem, Rosie. Sam is a good friend."

Rosie sat up quickly, begging, "You won't tell him, will you, Frodo? Say you won't! Promise!"

"I said that I can keep a secret, and I shall. But I don't doubt what you say will be true. I shall be so happy for you on that day, Rosie! Can I come to the wedding?"

"You must! There will be a big party and everyone will be there…" Rosie's eyes were full of light and happiness as she visualized that magical day. "I wish it were tomorrow!"

"Slow down, Rosie! Take your time and enjoy your days now! There is time enough for tomorrow. Today we have to round up these lambs, or they will be scattered from Scary to Tuckburough!"

"Frodo?"

"Yes, Rosie-lass?"

Rose took Frodo's hand and placed a white flower on his palm. "Thanks for being my friend."

**IV**

"Hullo, Rosie! Come in!" said Frodo Baggins, opening the round green door wide to admit his guest. He took her cloak and hung it on the peg in the hall. Every time he saw her, she seemed more pretty.

In the weeks that had past since that rainy day when they first had met, Rosie had become a frequent visitor to the Bag End. She would come once or twice a week, when she wasn't helping her mother or father. Frodo still thought she worked far too hard for a child her age, but he did not criticize her. She seemed to enjoy staying busy

Frodo and Bilbo both enjoyed her visits. She was still openly friendly, as she had been that first day, speaking her mind on everything and being very pleasant and clever. She seemed to know everyone in Hobbiton and she liked almost all of them. She talked about her large family and many brothers. Being an only child and somewhat isolated from such a life as he was, living alone with Bilbo, Frodo found it all fascinating.

Sometimes he would finish his studies early to spend the afternoon helping her visit the older, poorer hobbits in the village, who she would cook and mend for while Frodo visited with the gammer and gaffer, listening to their dusty tales and learning much about Shire history which he found very interesting. Frodo considered himself lucky to have found such a good friend.

But today, Rosie seemed distracted. She was still lovely with her fair hair like a halo over her head, but there was no pink in her cheeks. She tugged on her lip nervously, glancing out the window every so often when she thought Frodo was not looking. Frodo looked at Bilbo questioningly. His uncle shrugged slightly.

"What is the matter, Rosie?" asked Frodo, passing her a cup of tea. When she mumbled a reply, he teased her gently, "We have come to know each other better than that! I know something is troubling you. Won't you tell me?"

To Bilbo's surprise and Frodo's horror, Rose burst into tears suddenly, hiding her face in her napkin. Frodo hastened to her side and tried to comfort her.

"What is it, lass?" asked Bilbo with concern. "Your parents..."

"No. No, they are fine," she gulped, still weeping softly. "I'm sorry... I can't come to tea anymore!"

"Why not, Rose?" asked Frodo. He was beside himself with distress to see her cry, and the fear that she did not want to be friends anymore cut him deeply.

Rosie began to cry harder, until Bilbo sat beside her and wrapped his arms around the little hobbit-maid. She leaned against his shoulder, sobbing. Frodo stared at them in utter confusion.

"I think I know what is bothering our guest, Frodo. Do fetch a glass of water for Rose, and then bring in that brown bottle I keep in the study, there's a good lad. Now Rosie, dear, you just forget all about it. It isn't worth crying about, not even with your lovely eyes, child." He spoke softly to her as she wept, patting her back.

Frodo filled a glass with water for Rose then went to fetch the brandy. Bilbo had him pour a teaspoon of the cordial into a cup of tea while the young hobbit-lass drank her water. After she sipped her tea, her tears stopped flowing and she sniffed, her nose pink and her cheeks streaked like a windowpane on a rainy April day.

"What is it, Bilbo?" asked Frodo softly, not wanting to make Rose cry again, but curious beyond all patience to know what had disturbed his friend.

"There's been some loose talk, lad..." said Bilbo. Rose nodded, hanging her head over her cup.

"I haven't heard anything..." objected Frodo.

Bilbo nodded, still patting Rose's hand gently. "There isn't much this old hobbit doesn't hear, with the Gaffer always in my ear. He mentioned to me that some folks were commenting on..." Bilbo hesitated, as if searching for the correct word. Really, he paused because he had hoped not to have to speak of this to the lad. Frodo's face was open and his heart unarmored, and Bilbo knew that no matter what word or phrase he used, his nephew would be hurt to hear it.

"What, Uncle? What has been said?" Frodo insisted.

"Folks have been speaking about your conduct, lad. Now, before you get yourself all in a'thither, listen to your uncle! You listen, too, dear Rosie, because I speak the truth. There is nothing in any of this gossip! This is just... certain persons firing stray arrows, hoping to hit a mark. You are a convenient target, Frodo my lad. I have often worried that you would be belittled for associating with me. I am afraid that it comes with the territory, dear boy."

Frodo felt anger rise within him, cold and slick. "What are they saying about me?" he asked.

"Nothing that bears repeating. Don't give me that look, Frodo Baggins! A rumour repeated is as bad as telling the lie yourself. Nobody believes what is said, but everyone still listens."

Bilbo poured a splash of the brandy into a cup and filled it with steaming tea. He handed it to Frodo, who accepted it but did not drink. His eyes rested on Rosie's blotchy face. Her lip was quivering and fresh tears were in her eyes.

Frodo took a breath and calmed himself. Bilbo was right. The young hobbit had a pretty good idea of who had been spreading idle rumours, and why they would try to hurt him. He was the perfect way to injure Bilbo's reputation, if they could label him a miscreant or a debaucher. They had succeeded in some part, for here was a friend in misery and Frodo could think of nothing to do or say to mend her heart.

He offered her a smile, letting his stiff face soften into gentle lines. "Don't cry, Rosie-lass! I won't let such words hurt me. Please don't let them hurt you!"

Rosie sniffed and tried to smile a little, but her eyes were still filled with sparkling tears. "That's why I can't come to tea anymore, Frodo. My da doen't harken to or repeat such talk either, but I can't take the risk of bringing shame on my family. Don't hate me, Frodo! I want to be your friend, too, but I also want to marry someday and raise a family! What if these dirty folk start talking..." her blue eyes grew round with the horror of the idea she couldn't express except in a whisper, "What if they spread rumours about us?"

Bilbo sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. "You are a young lass, Rosie dear. They wouldn't dare say such things about you. Not yet." He rose and paced the parlour for a few minutes, while Rosie dried her eyes and folded and re-folded her napkin, unable to raise her eyes to look at Frodo.

Frodo watched Bilbo pace, wondering what was running through his uncle's mind. He put his arm around Rosie and she leaned her head on his shoulder. A sister he never had before, now being taken from him by cruel whispers that good folk ought to know better than to listen to. He echoed Bilbo's sigh.

"Rosie, you are so sensible and wise, it is hard to believe that you are so much younger than me! I understand why you don't want to come to tea anymore." He touched a finger under her chin, tilting her face upward so that he could look into her bruised eyes. He brushed away a stray tear. "We can still be friends," he said gently, "There are picnics and fairs, and holiday parties. We shall still see each other, and I will always come and ask for a dance, like a proper gentlehobbit."

Rosie put her arms around Frodo's neck, hugging him tightly. "Thank you for understanding, Frodo! I feel completely miserable about it... selfish... but this is my life! Hobbiton and Bywater are my home." She smoothed the damp fabric of Frodo's tunic where she had spilled her tears. "I will dance with you at the fair, and at the parties. You are always a gentlehobbit, Frodo! And you will always be my friend!" She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and hugged him hard, then hugged Bilbo soundly before fetching her cloak and leaving the smial.

⌂

Frodo watched her walk away down the lane; the afternoon was now late. Her hair was a shower of golden curls and he watched as she wound the road down to the bridge and began to cross. At the middle of the arch she turned toward Bag End and waved to him, then she hurried across and disappeared behind the screening elms of Bywater Lane.

Frodo felt Bilbo's hand on his shoulder. For a moment, as he watched Rosie disappear into the trees, he wished that he could bury his face in his uncle's shoulder as Rosie had, and weep out his frustration and pain. He was a young adult now; though not yet of age of responsibility, he was too old to cry like a baby. Instead he sighed and kicked at the grass growing up between the cracks of the flagstones.

"There, there, Frodo lad. I know it hurts. But they won't succeed in their foul little plots. You and Rosie... you two children will be fine." Bilbo's jaw was set and a spark of fire glinted in his eye. "I will see to it that loose tongues find a bitter taste for the feast of nonsense that has been wrought. There is more than one way to play that game.

"What will you do, Bilbo?"

"Never-you-mind, lad. Never-you-mind." Bilbo ruffled Frodo's curly hair affectionately. "Let's go and finish off that damson tart. I am curiously hungry after all this turmoil. Come and help me."

"No thanks, Uncle. I... would like to be alone for a little while. I think I will go and read in my room."

Frodo went inside and entered his little chamber, softly closing the door behind him. He reached under his pillow and brought out a flattened waxed paper containing a pressed flower. He had kept it since he was twelve years old. He sat on his bed and watched the afternoon fade to dusk, holding the dry primrose in his numb fingers.


	10. Ch 10 The Grove

**Chapter 9: The Grove  
**_In four parts_

**Part One, The Miller  
**  
"He's always wandering about, getting into places he ought not be. Maybe someday he will find some trouble and get hisself killed. Or maybe he will follow Bilbo's example and take off into the Blue."

"There's little chance of that! He's comfortable, so he is, up there in Bag End where he lives like a prince! Garn! He won't budge from that smial, not with all that treasure tucked away."

"There's little to that rumour, Sandyman. Surely, the way Baggins's spends him money, he should be using it up. That Brandybuck brat will soon bury him and waste the rest. That is when I will step in and take the property off of his hands. By then, he will be glad to part with the Hill. I plan to make Hobbiton an **un**_comfortable_ place for young Mr Baggins." Otho leaned across the table he shared with the miller, tucked away in the back of a barroom in Sackville, and added, "With your help, of course."

⌂

The Grain and Sack was a very fine inn, reflecting the wealth of the community. Otho Sackville-Baggins enjoyed a reserved table that was screened from the rest of the room. He did a lot of his business there. He had standing orders with the landlord to warn him whenever Lobelia came in.

⌂

Otho was pleased with himself. He was a wealthy hobbit, getting more wealthy all the time, but he was not satisfied. True affluence eluded him, and it galled him to have to work for his money, when some folks seemed to simply 'have' the position that he felt he deserved by birth. His cousin Bilbo threw a shadow over him that he had never been able to escape. His eviction from Bag End had been embarrassing, as embarrassing as being associated as a relative of 'Mad Baggins', but the adoption of Frodo was the one straw too many that burst the sheaf. It offended him that Frodo dared call himself 'Baggins'—though his father had been Drogo Baggins, he had gone and married a Brandybuck, and spent most of his time in Buckland.

"Why did he not change his name and stay there?" Otho sulked darkly. "And why did Bilbo have to come back at all?"

Thinking about these things put Otho in a foul mood, but Sandyman did not care. He was well compensated by the excellent beer and was willing to listen to Otho as he complained bitterly about his fortunes. When the hobbit slowed down, Sandyman would spur him again with a barbed comment.

"Saw the runt yesterday morning, planting trees along the row that leads down to the Water. Working, he was, side by side with those Gamgees. Spends more time with the help than with folks in his own class. Not seemingly, that. Not natural, I am thinking. Someday there will be an incident, mayhap, and he'll regret his familiar attitudes."

Hope gleamed darkly in Otho's face, but his reply was lost when the landlord loudly welcomed Lobelia, who had just come into the inn looking for her husband. Otho waved Sandyman away to the back door, so that she would not see that he had been talking to him. Before the hobbit passed outside, Otho grabbed him by the sleeve and said in a low hiss, "See to it that such an incident occurs, Master Miller, and a wealth of gratitude will be yours."

Sandyman shook off his grip. In a hoarse whisper he said, "It would be more than my life's worth, Sackville. I bear no particular love for the Bagginses, but neither do I wish to do them harm. I warrant that time will take care of your problems. Thanks for the draught!" He closed the door softly behind him, just before Lobelia came round the screening plants to find Otho drinking alone. Sandyman's mug and platter were beneath the table.

⌂

The conversation at the Inn in Sackville was forefront in Sandyman's mind today, though it had been weeks ago that he had last seen Otho. This morning, the miller's mind was as busy as his hands.

This was a job of work and no mistake. Sandyman raised his head, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow. He looked up at the tree and muttered harshly. It would be an easier task with Ted here, or a couple of hands from the mill. The Thain had said it would be a one-hobbit job, but it was proving to be more than he could handle alone.

Sandyman uttered a curse and slapped his hat against the flank of the pony, causing it to start in the harness again, straining against the stubborn roots. But even with the sturdy pony's considerable strength, they could not budge the tree trunk, could not manage to uproot it.

Some nasty sickness had caused the tree to die, Sandyman guessed. Though the upper limbs were still green, the tree's bark was peeling off and its heart was rotting. To prevent it from spreading to the other trees, Thain Paladin had asked Sandyman to come and get rid of it for him, paying handsomely for his immediate attention. Unfortunately, he had had no time to hire extra help, and the mill was in his foreman's hands with all his hired-hobbits trying to get the grist from that harvest turned before moist weather ruined the grain.

He reined in the straining draft pony and began to work at the trunk again, digging with a shovel to loosen the soil. With an axe he hewed the gnarled tendrils that clung to the earth. The day was growing hot now, and he paused to drink from a canteen filled with lukewarm water. The pony looked at him mournfully. Grudgingly, he poured some water in his hat and gave the horse a drink.

It reminded him of that day at the Free Fair when Frodo Baggins had upbraided Ted for neglecting the pony and rig. Behaving just like a Baggins; bossing and burrowing his nose into business that was not his. But Sandyman had to concede this, the lad had been right; they needed to take better care of the animals. You could get more work out of them that way. The miller had made sure that Ted tended the harnesses better, too.

Frodo Baggins had caught his eye that year at the fair. He had shown his son unwarranted familiarity, but also sternness and confidence that were not common traits among hobbits, however wealthy they might be. If it were not for the difference in their class, Sandyman might have been proud to have his son be friends with this sharp young hobbit.

But he was a Baggins… and a Baggins is a Baggins, as they say. He thought again about the conversation at the Grain and Sack Inn while the pony slurped noisily at the water. Otho was a greedy and miserable hobbit, but he could make the miller's life very soft or rather hard. He had money and influence, and extensive interests in the Southfarthing. But as ever, his rheumy eyes were fixed with desire on the Hill and Bag End.

Otho had asked Sandyman to 'arrange' something to happen to the young master Baggins. That did not sit well with the miller, but somehow he couldn't completely forget about it, either. What if something did happen… it was just a matter of time, after all… the lad was always wandering off on his own, trespassing and up to goodness knows what! How would the miller's life be changed?

Sandyman snorted at his own distraction, and he spat on the ground. Dreaming never brought grain to flour, as his dad used to say. He tossed aside his hat and tied a length of rope to the harness and went back around the tree, levering under the root with a long pole. He slapped the lead against the pony's hindquarters and shouted. The harness drew taunt as the pony tugged hard. The tree swayed and groaned but refused to yield.

It was awkward and dangerous, and Sandyman was tired and growing angry. He slapped the lead again. The pony dug in its hooves, surging against the yoke and away from the miller and his stinging rope. The hawsers sang and snapped as the tree swayed again, but still it did not fall.

Sandyman reined in the horse again. Its flanks were lathered now. It was no use; he would have to come back tomorrow with a team or with more men and that would place him behind in his orders.

He left off his cursing as he heard a voice. Someone was coming up the road. And around the bend of the path heading toward the Woodyend Waymeet was none other than Frodo Baggins himself. He was swinging a walking stick and singing a tune.

Seeing him then, in this place at this hour of frustration, a great anger awoke in Sandyman's heart. He ruthlessly whipped the pony again, causing the leather straps to stretch and the ropes to whine as the strong little horse heaved away from the tree. Sandyman hacked savagely with an axe at the roots that appeared at the tree leaned away from him. The tree groaned loudly, an almost human sound.

Suddenly there was a loud _**twang!**_ and a _snap-__**snap!**_ The rope was yanked out of Sandyman's hand, burning his fingers. The axe had slipped and cut the rope that fastened to the harness. But worse than that, the tree that had leaned so far away was now falling back toward Sandyman, into the hole he had dug trying to free the roots. He gaped up as the large trunk began to topple over him.

He was knocked from his feet, thrown to one side as the tree fell over the wrong way. Sandyman rolled down the slope from the road, spitting dirt and leaves when he came up short against a tussock of grass. Looking up, he saw his draft pony racing toward Nobottle, the buckles on the harness ringing like bells as it ran. The tree was lying across the road, and he could see a foot sticking out from under.

The miller ran to the road and pushed the limbs aside. Young Baggins lay there, face down on the ground. The tree had reached out with a twisted limb and struck the lad on the head as if fell. But if the boy had not run in and pushed the miller, Sandyman would have been crushed beneath the bole. Frodo had saved Sandyman's life.

With difficulty, Sandyman shifted the limbs and freed Frodo from the tangle of branches. Turning him over carefully, he saw a bruise spreading across the lad's face and a knot on his head already beginning to swell.

Frodo's eyes were half-open. He called out weakly, "…Mr Sandyman?"

"Oh, lad! What did you do that for?" the miller asked softly. "You've gone and brought the sky down on yourself. It's just as I've always said: 'a Baggins has got no sense to stay out of business that is not his own.'

"You ought not have done that, young master. You ought never to have left Buckland. With yer dead parents you should be… or better yet, never born at all." Frodo's brow creased in a frown upon hearing these words, then his eyes closed as consciousness left him.

Even bruised and dirty, the young hobbit's face was as fair as any Sandyman had ever seen. It reminded him sharply of a day many years ago, when his wife had delivered to him a bundle of light-brown curls and soft pink smiles; his firstborn son. The joy and pride he had felt on that day swelled again in his heart.

Then, dully in his ears, Sandyman heard Otho's words again. He looked at Frodo and saw his family enjoying a new class of lifestyle, if only his one hobbit was removed from the scene. To bring an end to such lively intellect and youth seemed a crime greater than any he had contemplated, but to see his wife and son secure and comfortable, celebrated as gentry… and himself a respected and affluent member of the community… the temptation was too great to resist.

Never could he have caused such a thing; it just 'happened', as if by Fate, without his inveigling or connivance. Surely he would own no guilt if he did nothing?

But he could not leave the lad here in the road. What if someone happened by, found him and suspected the miller's involvement? That wouldn't do… better take him somewhere that he wouldn't be found quickly, until it was too late or maybe… maybe they would never find him. He would be considered lost in the Blue as so many other ridiculous Bagginses had been, and no one would say anything… they all expected it to happen eventually, anyway.

The miller lifted the lad in his arms and bore him into the trees, through the thick growth of Woodyend's woven halls. He refused to listen to the shallow breathing or feel the fluttering that flashed on the youth's throat like the swift beats of a hummingbird's wings. He tried not to look down at the dark curly-haired head that leaned against his shoulder as he bore him deep into the unspoiled woods.

There he lay Frodo on a bed of leaves and as he did, he looked into that pale face once more and for a moment, he wished more than anything that Frodo could have been his own son.

The moment passed. Sandyman stood and brushed futilely at the stains on his sleeve. He had not realized the lad had been bleeding. His hands were wet with it, and no rubbing with grass or soil could remove the rusty stains. He turned away, moving as if his feet were made of lead or stone, and without another look back he left the glade and Frodo to the mercy of the woods.

**  
Part Two, Inglorion**

A bed of last year's leaves, colourful as party-paper lay on the ground beneath Frodo. His hands, like white lilies cut from their green stems, were half-buried in the rustling drifts. A wandering breeze stirred his dark curls. A single crimson tear trickled down his neck to fall to the earth.

Overhead, the trees stood in silent vigil. They seemed to be listening, harking to a call or a song that only they could hear.

In one of those trees, an Elf sat. He had seen the fall of the sickly tree and the accident that had occurred. He followed the miller and watched him lay his burden down. He had thought that he had brought the youth here to succor him; in the living heart of the wood, where would be better for healing? But he watched on in bewilderment as the hobbit turned and abandoned the lad, muttering under his breath and ignoring the tears leaking from his eyes.

Gildor had seen hobbits before. He had passed through Eriador many times, taking joy in the unpolluted beauty and bounty of the halfling lands. He had even met one, once. During the New Year's celebration, there was a hobbit that had come and drank wine with them and spoke in the old tongue. Gildor couldn't remember his name at the moment, but he recalled that this hobbit had been interesting (as interesting as Hobbits could be) and the Elf had enjoyed his company. On one occasion, he had brought the hobbit a message from Rivendell, slipping it into the box outside the bright green door with the special mark on it visible only to Elves.

Gildor was busy these days with business between Rivendell and the Havens. He had taken a moment for himself this day, to absorb the flavour of a Shire morning and the taste of sunlit air. His sensitive ears had heard the death-cry of a tree, moaning through the wood with a shivering sound. He had been drawn there by that cry and so had witnessed everything.

Mortals were not his concern, but this strange thing worried Gildor. He mourned the death of the tree but he could see that it had been dying already, and that the felling of it would preserve the health of other trees. It was the viciousness and savagery of the uprooting that disturbed him. And now this heartless act, leaving an injured lad alone in the woods, far from the aid of his own kind… Gildor was struck by the cruelty of it all, even him who had seen such things frequently in the millennia he had dwelt in Middle earth. So dear and precious seemed this one, so unalike other mortals the Elf had known. It became important to Gildor that he survive. He discarded his caution and leapt down from the tree, landing softly at the young halfling's side.

Gildor knew nothing of healing, but he could see that the hobbit was hurt. More than the abrasions and blood on his head, Gildor could see a yellowing of his spirit, a wounding of the heart that has naught to do with flesh or bone. The words the other hobbit has whispered aloud Gildor had clearly overheard, 'With yer dead parents you should be… or better yet, never born at all.'

Those words were as poison to the soul of the young hobbit, more crippling than the blow to his hard little head. Gildor unfastened his cloak and wrapped it around the pale halfling, trying to move him as little as possible. He would have to return to Woodhall for help. With luck, there would be one there or nearby who could render healing to the hobbit. It was too late for the tree, regrettably. A morning of mourning, this fine day had turned out to be.

⌂

Frodo felt his body as a distant thing, numbed like cold fingertips when he had forgotten his gloves on a wintry morning. His eyes saw nothing. He heard clearly, though, as if his ears compensated for the dampening of his other senses. Voices were whispering around him, about him, above him. He could neither move nor speak so he listened, trying to forget the hard words that echoed through his mind.

'…Never born at all…'

"What is'm, Firtle?" one voice said in his ear.

"Ah'm not knowing, Stint, but ah'm knowing this… in the grove it doesn't belong." The other voice was soft and slurred, like the speech of a child too young to talk clearly.

"How'd it get here? Wearing elf-sheen, spilling blood in the grove… that will bring bad things, Firtle! Make it stop!"

"How is Firtle making it to stop? Causing it Firtle is not!" Frodo heard movement near him, getting closer. He winced inside, wishing he could see. The voices were not threatening, but what they were saying was rather disturbing.

"Ah dinna mean to say so… but what canna we do? This smell bring _fëaorn_ soon, and they not nicely… Ah wanna save _aewn_. Want to keep _aewn_ always."

"Not _aewn_, this, Stint! 'Tis _pherian_, 'burrower-in-the-valley'. Keep it we cannot!"

"Would be like olden times, Firtle. It is same size as Jazzin were, when she were an imp. Could raise it, like our own!"

"Thistle 'n' thorn! Your mind, it is gone! Stint, no imp is this! Grove will not permit. Grove will bury it."

"No, no! We canna let that be, Firtle. Look at it… is just a waif! Help me, Firtle… could hide it…"

Frodo felt something tugging on him, and he saw spots of light glaring his eyes. Sunlight dappling through a thick roof of leaves, green as spring's memory. It was painfully bright, and Frodo raised a hand to shield his eyes. His head was throbbing and he felt sick. He forced himself to move, rolling over to look at his surroundings.

He was in a wide leafy hollow, screened all around with thick foliage. An open patch of blue sky showed the sun peeking down through the leaves. A small rivulet of water wandered amid the roots, washing over small stones like bleached white bones. A pile of dry wood lay nearby, next to a small shrub covered with blooming flowers. The sunlight was painfully bright, and Frodo raised his shaking hand to touch his aching head. His fingers came away wet with blood. It ran in a trickle down his cheek and dripped from his chin. Nausea rose inside and he lay his head down to stop the spinning.

What had happened? He couldn't seem to piece together the shattered morning in his mind. He remembered a feeling of fear, a burst of movement with an urgent need, but nothing clearer. He felt very sad, depressed in his heart, and he could not say why. Voices buzzed in his ears, distracting him from his own discomfort.

He felt a warm soft cloth drawn over his shoulders, and the voices murmured in his ear again, "Nasty cut you have there, _aewn_."

**short guide to my pigin Elvish:**  
_aewn: little one  
pherian: halfling  
fëaorn: tree-spirit_

**Part Three, Woodwight**

Frodo opened one eye and saw that the woodpile was nearer to him now. He blinked and looked again. Two small bright eyes regarded him with curiosity. He drew back with a start and was steadied from a fall by coming hard against a shrubbery on his other side.

"Spooking him don't, Stint! Broken he is. Willow-water we should bring." Soft and childlike, this voice lisped somewhere above him. Frodo looked around wildly, still trying to keep an eye on the twiggy beast in front of him.

The woodpile began to shudder, and a fluted sound erupted from it like a bird's laughter. "Willo'-water, willo'-water!" it said excitedly, and then it unexpectedly unfolded itself into a tall and thin being with nut-brown skin all knobbly and whorled like burnt-sugar candy. Its eyes were black like jet buttons and had long silky lashes. It leaned forward very close to Frodo's face. Frodo froze and held his breath. The creature brushed Frodo's cheek with the soft lashes of its shining eyes; if felt like the sweep of a butterfly's wing. "You stay, _aewn_. Bring you willo'-water."

Frodo pulled himself into a sitting position, though his head threatened to burst when he sat up. He watched the creature stalk away like a stork on its long legs. He clung to the bush and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deliberately. He felt the branches of the bush encircle him gently. He cautiously opened his eyes and looked into the face of another creature and realized the limb he was grasping were not a bush at all. He let go quickly and scrambled away.

"Easy, _pherian_! More damage you will suffer, flopping around like this! Firtle ah'm named. We are of the Grove. Hurt you we are not meaning to."

Frodo closed his eyes and opened them again, but the talking bush was still there. He must have bumped his head but good!

"Where am I, and how did I get here?" Frodo's voice quavered and broke. The eyes blinked at him, small and black just like the woodpile had. This creature had garbed itself in tufts of greenery and chains of flowers, and was stocky and thick-limbed.

"Stint and Ah found you here. Knowing not how, knowing not why, but this we knowing: you canna stay long here. _Fëaorn_ come soon, not good for you." It wobbled from side to side, shedding flowerpetals like tears. "What name you?"

"I am… my name is…" Frodo began to say, but his tongue locked on the words and his name fluttered away from the grasp of his mind like a phantom.

'…_in Buckland… with your dead…'_

These words echoed in his head. He gingerly touched his bruised temple. "I don't remember! I don't know…" a great distress filled his breast, and his breath came in sharp, painful bursts.

"Easy, easy! With water comes Stint now. Better it will make you feel, Ah'm thinkin'." The wood-sprite had returned, bearing a shallow clay vessel in his long twiggy fingers. Frodo accepted it, though the creature had to steady his trembling hands while he drank.

Immediately, a feeling of peace and ease spread through him. His aches receded, and his head ceased to throb. The bowl slipped from his nerveless fingers as he relaxed. All over his body, his skin felt tingly, from his toes to the roots of his hair. His vision cleared and he saw the sprites clearly, their camouflage penetrated now. They crouched nearby, eyeing him with satisfaction.

"Tha's the draught! Right as rainwater, he will be now. We can get him out before…"

**"What is this?"** A stern voice said, seeming to come from all around them. The wood-sprites jumped straight into the air, then ran and hid behind Frodo, trembling. The hobbit blinked and looked at the new arrival.

She was tall, as tall as the trees around him, and her skin was green as moss. She appeared to be garbed in bark or rough weave, girdled with ropes of ivy. Her hair was long and filled with leaves of many trees, and her eyes blazed with an angry light. Frodo looked upon her and his eyes glazed. His head fell back against the grass.

"Ohh! _Dagda Lasgalen! _Spare him! He means no harm!" Stint begged, though he cowered behind the entranced hobbit.

"Means no harm? Tell this to the tree that lies now unrooted; slain! And what of the dryad who had tried to succor it? Long has she lived, and many trees has she seen grow from acorn to ash. This loss may be one death too many!" She seemed to fill the glade with her presence, and the trees bowed and bent to give her passage. When her feet touched the earth, springs of water and flowers erupted from her prints. She looked down at the two-legged creature who had invaded the Grove. Hundreds of years of bitterness twisted her face from loveliness to a mask of hate.

Firtle trembled so hard the flowers draped around him shed their petals like rain. "Wilting wobble-limbs! Sick was that tree! Other trees making sick! Let dryad tend the others instead! A fair bloom this one is! Would be evil to cut him down!" The shrub-disguised woodsprite jumped as crackling light flew from the eyes of the woodwight and left scorches on his pale, papery flesh.

She was the Grove mistress; _Dagda Lasgalen_ she was named. She glowered at the sprites. "The woods and winds have told me what has transpired. He is a tree-slayer and a fire-bringer!" Wind that had been limp in the branches all day now raised the boughs in a gyrating dance as the anger of the woodwight mounted.

"The old magics and spirits that once thrived in this land are fleeing and fading, or burrowing deep into the soil, waiting for that time when new strength might return to them. Will spring ever come again for them? The seasons between renewal and deathtime have lengthened with each passing Age. Perhaps an end must come to this world of Mortals 'ere our folk find strength again. Let his blood enrich the earth from which the fallen has been torn!"

"No, no! _Dagda_, please! Not this one… he is innocent." Stint and Firtle both moved to stand trembling before the wrathful woodwight. She swept up to them, ready to brush them aside like leaves.

"Hold your wrath, _fëaorn!_" A booming voice broke over the glade. The woodsprites hurled their twiggy bodies over the helpless hobbit. The woodwight turned and regarded the aged man who had appeared in the midst of the Grove.

"Dare you come into the Grove, old man?" The trees swayed and bowed, but their grasping branches and roots would not come near to the grey-clad man. He moved forward as if encircled with grace. Behind him walked an Elf with hair like spun gold.

"_Noldo! Heru nin_, grant clemency to thy servant!" The wind died and the trees returned to their lassitude. The woodwight bowed to the ground at the feet of the Elf, who looked at the wizard beside him with a small smile.

"Rise and release your ire, _Dagda Lasgalen_," spoke Gandalf softly, for it was he and none other that Gildor had brought from Woodhall, met as if by Fate at the moment the grey wizard had chosen to depart for the borders of the Shire. Gildor had begged him to come and when he had heard the circumstances, he moved with the acclaimed speed for which Wizards are renowned.

The woodwight looked upon the old man, and saw then the power that he kept cloaked. She faded swiftly away into the woods. Gandalf knelt beside Frodo and chuckled softly. "You can get up now, Firtle. She is gone."

The woodsprites crept aside, moving jerkily as if they wished to flee with terror but wanted to make sure this powerful creature would not hurt their little friend. Stint ran to Gildor and grabbed his hand. "Save our little _aewn_, master! Don't let the fire-bringer devour him!"

"He is _Mithrandir_, woodsprite. He will not harm the _pherian_. Go and be blessed for your aid and caring. We shall return him to his home safely."

Firtle waddled up to Gandalf bravely and said, "Name him, master. Lost he is within himself. Willow-water will not cure that wound."

Gandalf nodded and stooped, gathering the halfling in his arms carefully. Frodo's head fell back, his eyes still bedazzled by the Grove mistress's magics. "Awake, Frodo Baggins!" Gandalf said, stroking his face with gentle fingers.

Gildor faded back into the trees, not wishing to be seen by the halfling. Frodo's trauma was great enough for one day, and somehow the Elf knew that he would see the halfling again one day. Hopefully that day would be a better time for greetings.

The hobbit blinked and yawned. "Gandalf? Is that you? Where have I been?" Frodo looked around, waking from a strange dream to a strange place. He touched his head gingerly, his fingers remembering a wound but finding no evidence of injury now, except his own blood now dry on his hands. "What happened?"

"Do you remember nothing, my lad?" asked Gandalf. The hobbit looked around blearily, but saw nothing but trees and grass and the grey wizard that was holding him like a child. For once, Frodo did not mind being carried. He felt tired as if he had walked all day and night without rest.

"Nothing, Gandalf, except a horrible dream. Can you keep a secret?"

Gandalf laughed gently, and began to walk, bearing the young hobbit toward his home. "I have been known to keep a secret now and then, or rather," he chuckled, "_**not**__ known to—_if you take my meaning!"

"Gandalf, I once conspired to frighten someone by dressing up as a tree. But today I have been paid back for that mischief. I think I was attacked by a tree!"

"Attacked by a tree? My dear Frodo! What an imagination you have! I think perhaps you must have fallen and hit your head. Hasn't your uncle warned you against wandering into virgin groves?"

Frodo looked at Gandalf face, sensing that there was much more going on behind that impassive smile than was coming forth in his words. "Yes, sir, he has indeed warned me so. I must have forgotten."

"Indeed. Well, I should think that you would be safer on your walk-abouts if you have a friend accompany you from now on. I am sure that Samwise would be happy to do so, if you can pry him out of the garden for an afternoon, or Master Meriadoc when he can be persuaded to abandon his more trivial pursuits."

"I was merely taking the road from Bag End to the Waymeet. I have trod it a dozen times. How could I have known that I would be waylaid by a shrub and a woodpile… but surely that was part of the dream! What a strange world it has become; what is the Shire coming to?"

"What indeed, Master Baggins," murmured Gandalf, as the young hobbit's eyes closed wearily. Frodo did not see the distress that touched the aged Wizard's features, making them longer and older that ever they had been. "What indeed?"

**Part Four, The Wizard and the Hobbit**

_Are any of us the same after we experience a trauma, or even after our first perfect sunrise? Every day brings change... and that itself is a reason to hope._

Gandalf walked briskly toward Hobbiton, carrying his precious burden with as much care as he could. Frodo sat in the crook of his left arm, his head against the Wizard's shoulder and his hands beneath the warmth of the long grey beard. Gildor's cloak was still draped over him. He felt safe and warm and strangely detached from the adventure he had just had. It seemed more like a dream that anything real and dangerous.

Gandalf encouraged him to sleep with soothing words, but his mind was restless even if his limbs felt heavy and lazy. Something still raced around in his head, words that wouldn't stay still so he could remember them, like the name of a distant cousin you can only recall when you aren't trying to think of it.

Frodo abandoned the chase. He wanted to stop thinking, so he said aloud, "What are you doing in the Shire today, Gandalf?"

The Wizard glanced down at him, the movement of his head caused his long beard to tickle Frodo's face. The young hobbit giggled. This sound made Gandalf smile, eivh softened the deep creases on his brow.

"Merely going from one place to another, Frodo."

"I hope I am not making you late for an appointment." Frodo grinned at him.

Gandalf chuckled. Something about this hobbit always brought a laugh out of him. "A Wizard, my dear Frodo, is **never** late."

"Oh, really?" Frodo said, and though his expression was as bland as strained milk, his eyes were twinkling with merriment. "Then you were not late to our last birthday party, but merely a couple of months early for Yule?" Gandalf's laughter rolled from him, and Frodo thrilled to hear the sound through the cloth and flesh of the broad shoulder against which he lay his head. It sounded like an echo through a sea-beast's shell, though woody and richer in its resonance.

"Neither is a Wizard early! They are always exactly where they are, and arrive precisely when they mean to!" Together they laughed, a deep booming sound blending with the high treble of the young halfling, the unexpected sound causing a flight of birds to erupt into flight, squawking in annoyance.

Frodo watched their flight. Large black crows, picking over the remains of the early harvest. Their eyes were beady and black, just like...

Frodo shivered as the memories brushed him again. Gandalf tucked the cloak around the young hobbit more closely. Frodo fingered the material. "Where did this come from, Gandalf? I have never seen this cloth before."

"It was loaned to you by a friend, Frodo. I will return it to him after I bring you home."

"I have never felt anything so soft!" Frodo drew it around him, brushing his cheek against the silky folds. "And it smells like... well, like spice and wind and moonlight!"

"Smells like moonlight, eh?" Gandalf smiled again, but his eyes were serious and sad. Would this lad remember what had happened to him? Should he tell him or let him forget the trial he had endured?

Gandalf knew by the virtue of his sight what had transpired along the Waymeet Road that morning, and he pondered the actions of the miller. Had he intended to return with help or had he truly left the lad to die? Gildor had been unable to answer these questions and the Wizard had only one other witness, since the tree was now dead.

Gandalf paused beneath an apple tree before the last rise that would bring them down to the lane through Bywater. He set Frodo down gently and gave the lad a drink from his flask. He sat down next to him, settling his long robes around him and drawing Frodo onto his lap. "Look at me, lad," he said softly, and Frodo did so, turning his bright eyes upward. Like a summer sky though clean windows, they looked.

Gandalf peered into Frodo's memory. It took merely an instant, between one sweeping blink of the young hobbit's long lashes and the next, but the Wizard learned all that he wished in that moment. "You have had an adventurous morning, lad," Gandalf said.

"I... I guess so, sir. I don't... really remember."

So blatantly raw was this untruth that Gandalf blinked in surprise. But he said nothing. He could see that Frodo did not choose to remember what he had heard or seen. The Wizard realized that sometimes, this was the only way mortals could cope with something hurtful or sad. Gandalf wished that this was something that the Wise could do, but it was his fate to remember and not forget. He bore knowledge to the Free Folk and helped them find strength and hope within themselves to counter the darkness that threatened their world. But for this instance, he did not think that it was necessary for the young hobbit to remember—at least, not yet.

"I think that a meal at home and a nice long sleep will see you right, my dear boy. Just you relax now; we will be there soon."

"I can walk, Gandalf. You don't have to carry me." Frodo said. He held the soft fabric of the cloak wrapped around him, careful not to let it drag on the ground behind. He offered a hand to the Wizard, and so they walked together through Bywater.

As they came to the bridge of the Water where the mill-wheel churned the clear stream to foam, Frodo shuddered and walked closer to the tall Wizard. Gandalf laid a hand on his shoulder. "What is it, lad?"

Frodo did not hear the Wizard's question. His eyes were drawn to the far end of the bridge and the figure standing there, staring at him in utter disbelief.

As they walked slowly past, the miller ducked his head and tugged his forelock to the young hobbit. "Master Baggins was asking after you, Mr Frodo," he said hollowly. Sandyman's face was haunted and yet at the same time awash with relief. "I am glad to see you are all right."

Frodo looked at the miller, and even Gandalf felt the chill that came from him. "Thank you, Mr Sandyman. I am quite well. Good day." Frodo walked on, so that he missed the warning glare that Gandalf shot toward the miller, as well as Sandyman's expression of utter terror and his swift retreat to safety behind stout oaken doors.

The Wizard and the hobbit walked in silence through Hobbiton, but when they came to the foot of the Hill, Frodo stumbled. Gandalf steadied him with a quick hand, preventing him from falling. The young hobbit caught his hand and held it tightly. He did not speak and Gandalf could see tears on his face.

Gandalf swallowed the lump in his throat and said nothing. Some wounds take longer than others to heal, and no words or magic or willow-water will hasten their cure.

⌂

Sandyman closed the door and dropped the bolt. He leaned against the wood and breathed deeply until his racing heartbeat slowed. Behind him, he heard Ted approach cautiously.

"Dad? Sir?"

The miller harrumphed and turned to look at his son. "What, boy?"

"A letter has come for you, sir, from Master Sackville-Baggins. I left it in your office." The boy came up to him and touched his sleeve. "Are you alright, dad? There is blood on your shirt."

Sandyman jerked his arm away from the boy. Ted winced and ducked, though the blow he expected did not fall. The miller lowered his hand slowly and cupped the boy's face gently. "It's nothing, lad. Forget about it. Let's call it a day."

"But... father, sir! We have orders to meet! You told us to finish before sundown..."

"Let the foreman handle it, Ted. Come with me now. Let's spend some time together; how long has it been since we went fishing?"

Ted stared at his father, who was behaving very unlike himself. Softly, Ted answered, "It's been a while, sir."

"Then let's go! Leave the work... it will be here tomorrow when we come back." Ted smiled and eagerly ran to fetch the fishing poles and gear, which had been gathering much dust in the corner. Sandyman picked up the letter that lay on top of his desk. Without opening it, he carried it to the furnace and tossed it into the flames.


	11. Ch 11 What Friends Are For

**Chapter 10: What Friends Are For  
**_in six parts_

**I**

Frodo did not know what Gandalf told Bilbo about that day in the woods near Woodyend. He went to his room as soon as they arrived at Bag End, falling in exhaustion onto his soft bed where he slept the day and night away, waking in the early dawn to the sound of Sam and Gaffer labouring in the garden. He felt strangely weak and hungry as if he had been ill, though he felt completely well. He bathed his face and hands and dressed himself, then followed his nose to the kitchen.

His uncle was bustling about the board, pulling hot pies from the oven. The smell of them made the young hobbit's mouth water. "Good morning, Bilbo, sir!"

"Frodo lad!" Bilbo nearly dropped the pie he was holding, saving it from tipping from his hands with a deft movement. "I thought you were going to sleep your life away! Sit down and have a cup of tea, dear boy. I shall dish you up some porridge."

"You have your hands full, uncle—I can get it." Frodo poured a cup of tea for himself and one for Bilbo. He hesitated, looking for a third cup. "Is Gandalf still here?"

"No, lad. He had to be off on his way. Left early this morning he did, after looking in on you one last time. Worried about you he was, but he didn't say why." Bilbo set the last pie on the sill, where the smell of the bubbling fruit pastries filled the morning breeze.

Frodo was spooning tea leaves into their cups with an excess of care, pointedly not looking at Bilbo. "What did he tell you about yesterday?"

"Very little, to my annoyance—if I may criticize one so wise! He seemed to think it was not his place to say ought. I was hoping you could shed a little light on why you came home half-dead from exhaustion in the arms of a wizard with an Elvish cloak wrapped around you? Or is that not any business of mine?" Bilbo sighed, seeing that his sharp remark had hurt Frodo. "Come, lad, I am only hard because I am so worried about you! I am not angry."

Frodo took his teacup in his hands but did not drink. "I was hoping Gandalf would have told you, sir. I don't remember much myself. I was walking to the Waymeet along the road through Woodyend. There was an accident; a tree fell and I was knocked on the head. I had some strange dreams and woke to find Gandalf. He bought me home… and that is all that I remember."

Bilbo face was full of concern. "I checked your head, lad, when I saw the blood on you. There is naught but a small white mark under your hairline. I wouldn't have known you were hurt at all, but for the stains on your hands and face."

"Gandalf must have done some magic… I don't remember." Frodo drank his tea and dug into his breakfast, hot porridge piled with sweetenings and a large slice of Bilbo's fresh berry pie. The incident was fading from his mind and his strength was returning. "I feel just fine now, uncle. Your pies are as excellent as ever!" Bilbo gave him a second wedge, relieved to see the lad's appetite return.

"Eat them up, young Baggins, for you have a day ahead of you, if you feel so well! You have visitors coming today, which you seem to have forgotten also. Meriadoc Brandybuck should be here by lunchtime, and he's bringing that young cousin from Tuckburough, Peregrin. They can both eat more than a team of draft horses, and I need help getting everything ready. I want you to find Gamgee's boy and have him help you with the market this morning… finish your breakfast first!" Bilbo said as Frodo rose from his chair hastily. The young hobbit sat back down and cleaned his plate, setting the dishes in the basin. "Leave the washing up to me; off you go, lad! And don't forget to pick up some flour. I used the last of ours on these pies!"

In the garden Frodo found Samwise tugging at a weed that had dared to sprout in his father's beloved tater patch. He loosened the tough root from the ground and chucked it into the barrow with a heap of other unwanted foliage. Frodo waved to him and said, "Hola, Sam! I must go to the market this morning. Can the Gaffer spare you for an hour or so? We will need the barrow as well. Bilbo has ordered half the provender in the Shire!"

"Aye, go along there, Samwise—and mind yerself!" The Gaffer nodded politely to Frodo, leaning on his hoe. "Good morning to you, Mr Frodo."

"And to you, Master Gamgee. The garden looks beautiful, sir!" The Gaffer beamed with pride and Sam wheeled the barrow over to the compost heap where he upended it. He followed Frodo down the hill, heading toward the Hobbiton market.

As they passed the mill, Frodo made to cross the bridge, but Sam paused. "Didn't Mr Bilbo say he needed some more flour, sir? We might just as well pick it up now."

"Yes, Sam, he did. I thought to spare you pushing it around while we picked up the groceries. We could get it on the way home just as easily."

"Why, Mr Frodo, you are too kind. It's not a burden at all!"

Frodo hesitated. For some reason, he was loath to go into the mill. He handed Sam a coin. "Do me a favour, Sam, and get the flour for me. Finest ground with no hulls, as Bilbo favours. I will meet you at the butcher's stall. All right?" He hurried on when Sam nodded agreeably. He drew a breath to ease his tight chest as he stepped off of the bridge on the Bywater side.

Sam pushed his empty barrow up to the open door of the mill. The huge wheel was squeaking as the water pushed it round and round, though the gears inside were not turning today. There seemed to be no one about. Sam coughed and then called out, "Hallo, the mill?"

"Hallo!" Ted Sandyman appeared from inside a small room, dusting his hands that were coated with flour. "What do you want, Gamgee?" he said roughly, though he sounded almost happy. Sam did not recall ever seeing him in such a good mood before, unless he was tormenting someone.

"Picking up an order for Mr Baggins, Ted. Finest flour, please?" said Sam.

"Aye, right here it is. Da tol' me to deliver it this afternoon." Ted looked as if he was insulted that Sam was come to claim this errand.

"Set it in the barrow, if you please, Mr Sandyman," said Sam equably. "Mr Bilbo used his up this morning, and needs it a bit earlier, is all. Where's Mr Sandyman?" Sam looked around at the deserted mill, where unturned lumber and grain were setting around, neglected. "I've a coin from Mr Frodo…"

"I'll give it to my da when he gets back. He's off today with the foreman, pulling in a tree that was felled out by Woodyend." Sam dropped the coin in Ted's meaty hand. The strong hobbit set it between his teeth and bit on the metal. Sam shook his head. He had never understood that practice. Ted slid the coin in a pocket. "Off with ye now, Gamgee! I have other work to do today. There is your flour. Carry it out to yerself! I am a busy hobbit, don't you know?"

Sam picked up the bag and left the mill, more than happy to put the miller's son behind him. That lad had often brought Samwise grief in one form or another. But he did not dwell on this; he set the bag in the barrow and pushed it over the bridge, looking for Frodo in the crowd of hobbitry around the market that morning.

He spotted him easily. Frodo's dark hair stood out sharply among all the other heads, crowned with brown curls or bonnets. Sam had never realized how tall Frodo had become. He had always seemed tall to Sam, who was younger than him by some twelve years. Now he saw that Frodo was indeed taller than most hobbits, even those who were half again his age. Also, his fair skin set him apart as well. He spotted Sam and waved to him, his clear voice carrying easily above the din of the market.

They completed their shopping quickly, loading the barrow to overflowing. Frodo took one handle while Sam the other, and together they pushed the heavy load up the winding Hill path.

Standing close to Frodo, Sam marked him again. Just like any other hobbit he appeared, dressed in clothes perhaps a bit richer than the average, but well worn. But something about him was unusual, too. Sam couldn't put his finger on it. He stole frequent glances at Frodo as they walked, until Frodo laughed and said, "Have I got spots breaking out on my face, Sam? What is it you are staring at?"

"Nothing, sir! Only you seem different today; taller for one thing, sir, if you don't mind my saying so. I don't recall you being so tall, Mr Frodo."

"I am sure you're imagining it, Sam. I am just the same as ever! Or perhaps," Frodo paused, glancing down and realizing that the cuffs of his trews did seem to come a bit higher above his ankles than usual, and his tunic had been a bit tight across his shoulders this morning when he had dressed. "Perhaps I am just a growing hobbit! I think you are right, Sam! It must have been that extra slice of pie this morning!"

They trundled up the path to the Bag End, and Sam elbowed the gate open so that they could wheel the barrow toward the rear entrance of the smial. Frodo nearly dropped his end of the barrow as Sam let his go, exclaiming in disbelief.

A tall weed had sprouted right next to the tater patch he had cleared that morning. Frodo's complaint made Sam grab the barrow again, but the young hobbit was still upset. "I pulled that weed already once this morning, I swear it, Mr Frodo! And there it is again, growing up like the wind from the south!"

Frodo looked at the strange plant, a tall woody-looking thing with whorled brown wood and knobby branches. He laughed at Sam, "I think the Gaffer is overworking you, Sam! How can a weed grow that quickly?"

"I dunno, Mr Frodo," said Sam darkly, as they began to unload the barrow. "But I wonder if they don't wander in from out of the woods at times! I swear, sometimes I hear 'em laughing at me!"

When the hobbits disappeared inside, the plant shuddered and began to move itself toward the rose garden, where a new bush had rooted itself. A whisper would have been heard, if anyone had stood nearby, "Told you, Stint, so Ah did. Hide in a garden, do not dress as a weed, Ah said. Uprooted you'll get yourself again, if you don't change!"

The woody-weed shed its foliage and wound itself into an innocent-looking bird's-nest. It settled into the branches of the hedge, just beneath the study window. "You think you know it all, don't you, Firtle? I was the one who found the path to _aewn's_ house! Now we can see _aewn_ everyday, and keep him safe!"

Firtle shook his flowered branches. He had disguised himself as a rosebush with extra thorns. "Stint did find, Ah'm agreeing. But he is not _aewn_, Ah'm tellin' you. His name you heard, as did Ah. 'Meester Froda' he is called."

Stint hissed as the hobbits came back outside to empty the barrow. Sam looked at the tater patch, now missing the tricky weed. He guessed the Gaffer must have been having a joke on him. He decided not to mention it again, in case Mr Frodo really began to believe his gardener was going mad.

Frodo had paused, staring at the garden. His memory was being tickled, and when Sam touched his sleeve in concern, he laughed and shrugged it off. "I think we are both going barmy, Sam! I could have sworn I heard the plants talking this time. Let's go and have a piece of Bilbo's pie before Meriadoc and Peregrin come and eat them all. This has been a strange morning!"

**  
II**

_**Author's Note**: The year is around 1398, summer in the Shire. Young Frodo Baggins has more to worry about than peculiar dreams. There is a change in him that has become visible to all, even his closest friends. Weeds aren't the only thing growing up on the Hill._

It had been a strange morning, bound to become a strange afternoon. For no young hobbits had appeared by lunchtime, and Bilbo was becoming a little worried about what might be delaying Merry and Pippin. It was not like those two to be late for a meal. Frodo volunteered to run down the lane toward Tuckburough and see what he could.

No farther than the bridge to Hobbiton did he need go, though, for there it was that he found his two young cousins sitting on the grass beside the mill. Ted Sandyman and Lotho Sackville-Baggins stood nearby, restraining a pony that struggled and whinnied and tried to break from their hold.

Pippin was in tears, but it was Merry who was hurt. Frodo hurried down the dusty road and went straight to Merry, who sat grimacing and clutching his foot. As Frodo ran up, he heard Merry say to Peregrin through clenched teeth, "Not a word, young Took."

"Merry! Whatever has happened?" Frodo looked with pity at Merry's poor foot, his toes very red and beginning to swell.

"An accident, Frodo," Merry said, looking at Pippin who was biting on his lip. The lad was just eight years old, but intelligent and unusually well-spoken for one his age. He said nothing now, just looked at Merry with eyes reddened and face streaked. "Lotho's pony stepped on my foot. I'll be fine in a few moments. Help me up, will you?"

Frodo clucked his tongue. He wondered by the bruising and swelling if Merry's foot might indeed be broken. "Just stay right there, Merry, and don't try to stand on that! Pippin, would you run up the Hill and ask Sam to come with his barrow? We can use that to get you to Bag End, Merry. Not the most dignified way to arrive to tea, but better than hopping on one foot!" Peregrin sped off, cutting across yard and over burrow.

"How did this happen, Merry?" asked Frodo.

"You heard him, Baggins. It were an accident." Ted Sandyman's shadow cut across Merry's prone form. Frodo looked up at him, stiffening slightly at the animosity in Ted's voice. "Lotho got a new pony from his dad. He is still a little green to ride. Brandybuck wasn't moving fast enough across the bridge and got trod on!" Ted laughed a nasty laugh.

"I'll be all right, Frodo. Forget about it. Just help me get to the Hill." Merry's voice was almost pleading for Frodo to drop the subject. Frodo could see now that Lotho had come up behind them, slapping his riding gloves on his thigh with a _**crack**_.

Lotho was four years older than Frodo, and had always used his age and weight against the younger hobbit, trying to intimidate him. He was a terror to his peers in Sackville where he lived with his parents and a known bully to all the children in Hobbiton and Bywater. Ted and he were as close to friends as either was likely to have. Individually, they were to be avoided—together, they could mean a lot of trouble.

Frodo's heart was hot with anger on Merry's behalf. He knew the tricks that Shire lads sometimes played on visitors from across the Brandywine; he had been the brunt of many japes and practical jokes himself when first he had moved to Hobbiton. This seemed a bit more than just hazing, though. Merry's foot could be seriously injured, and Peregrin might have been hurt as well.

"I can't say I think much of taking a green pony for a ride through the village, Lotho," Frodo commented. Merry winced and ducked his head, but Frodo could see that it wasn't his foot that pained him.

"What's that supposed to mean, Baggins?" asked Lotho menacingly. He stepped forward quickly and grabbed Frodo by his vest, hauling him to his feet as if he intended to shake him like a rat. He had not counted on Frodo being taller than him now by a good two inches. He released Frodo's jacket and stepped back uncertainly.

Frodo was not the least bit afraid of either Lotho or Ted. He had taken and given beatings to both of them at one time or another, in one-on-one wrestling or fisticuffs. But Ted was closing in behind him and Merry was in too bad a way to back him up. He took a deep breath and tried to think through the moment.

He kept his voice soft and reasonable, "I only mean that it would be a shame to injure such a fine pony, riding him about before he is fully trained. Your father would be most ill pleased, should such a valuable animal come to harm. If I were you, I would get him out of here and away before anyone learns about this and it gets back to your father."

Lotho looked uneasy at the mention of his father. He lifted his chin and said defiantly, "I'm on business for my father today. There is no reason why I shouldn't be here."

Frodo took a step toward Lotho, taking advantage of his uncertainty. "If you have business, then be about it, Master Sackville-Baggins. I have business, too. Perhaps Ted will be kind enough to help you mount your green pony so you can be away. I am afraid that I am rather too busy at the moment to assist you." He leveled an even stare at Lotho, all the while half-expecting a blow from Ted who stood behind him.

Lotho backed down quickly. Mumbling something, he grabbed a fistful of Ted's shirt and dragged him along. Ted walked backward rather than turn his back to Frodo, stumbling toward the mill and the place where they had tethered the pony. He looked as though the matter had not been dropped as far as he was concerned.

Frodo turned his back on them at once, kneeling next to Merry. Meriadoc's eyes were big as saucers, and he was trying to keep a smile off of his face. He bowed his head as if in pain, but whispered for Frodo's ears, "You tell 'em, cousin!"

Frodo kept his own smile hidden with difficulty. "If you can't beat them—bluff them, my dear Meriadoc." There was a clatter of hooves as Lotho's pony galloped away, Lotho barely hanging on as the beast took its head and bolted over the bridge. Luckily, there were no pedestrians this time. Ted went inside the mill and slammed the door behind him.

Shortly Sam appeared, with the barrow as well as the Gaffer and Bilbo. Peregrin was trotting alongside, puffing and red-faced.

Bilbo looked at Merry's foot, and then sent Sam to fetch the doctor from town. They lifted the lad into the barrow gently and carefully rolled him up the Hill. "I certainly hope that none of those bones are broken, young Meriadoc! What will your father say, when he hears about this?"

"It was just an accident, Uncle Bilbo. Really, I will be fine…" Merry protested, wincing at every jolt and bump as the older hobbits steered him toward Bag End.

"That's what young Peregrin said," Bilbo commented, glancing back at the young Took. Pippin refused to look into his eye. Bilbo nodded and said no more, but Frodo could see he was not fooled.

Frodo carried Pippin pig-a-back; the young Took was winded and worried about his cousin. He grasped Pippin under his legs, and with the lad hugging him around the neck, they followed the Gaffer and Bilbo uphill. Pippin leaned his face close to Frodo's ear and whispered, "It wasn't no accident, cousin Frodo."

"I know, lad," Frodo murmured back to him. "We will settle with Mr Lotho and Mr Sandyman. But we mustn't make trouble for Bilbo, lad. There's folks who want to cause him grief, and you or Merry getting hurt while visiting us would be just the kind of incident they could use. I know it is hard to not be mad… I am furious myself! Just don't say anything about it right now, all right?"

"That's what Merry said. I don't understand, but I will stay quiet. I promised Merry." Pippin's face was splotchy from crying, but now it was determined and grim.

Frodo jogged him a little, making sounds like a pony. Pippin giggled slightly. "We will talk about it later, and I will help you understand then. Right now, let's try to get home before the pies are all cold."

"Pies?" Pippin hugged Frodo hard around his neck, making him gasp. "I thought I could smell pies…"

**  
III**

Doctor Samuel Halebody, a neatly dressed hobbit of middling years, arrived swiftly with Sam Gamgee carrying his bag, an anonymous leather satchel. Bilbo let him into the parlour where they had settled Meriadoc, his feet propped up on a cushioned stool.

Frodo had taken Pippin into the kitchen for a morsel of food and to keep him out from underfoot, but they both leaned against the door listening and looking in as Doctor Halebody examined Merry.

Merry looked up at the doctor uneasily, his face betraying his pain and fear. Doctors meant icky-tasting medicines and sharp pokes and prods. He had never felt comfortable around them, and now he tensed as the hobbit came close to him.

Dr Halebody looked the boy in the face, taking no notice of his foot. He took off his hat and coat, handing them to the ubiquitous Samwise, and held out his hand to Merry. "Master Brandybuck? It is my honour to meet you, young sir. I know your father Saradoc; you are the very image of him when he was your age. We were friends back when I lived in Stock as a lad." Merry accepted his hand, smiling a little.

The doctor sat down next to him, setting his bag between his feet. "Master Baggins was kind enough to invite me to tea this afternoon. Perhaps I could take a look at your scuff while the water boils?" Merry nodded, relaxing at the hobbit's friendly manner and gentle voice.

From out of his bag, Dr Halebody brought forth a strange object. Pippin gasped and clutched Frodo's arm, afraid that it would hurt Merry terribly, but Merry exclaimed, "I know what that is! That is a tuning fork! Mother uses that to keep the hobbit-fry choir singing together."

"Aye, Mr Brandybuck. There is another use for a tuning fork, than to keep young hobbits from singing sour. I am going to strike this and touch it to your toes, one at a time. If you feel any discomfort, say so at once!"

The doctor struck the fork lightly on the arm of his chair, then touched it to Merry's big toe.

Merry laughed. "Doctor sir… that is my good foot!"

"Oh!" cried the doctor, who made a show of taking off his thick spectacles and cleaning them thoroughly. He put them back on and squinted at Merry's feet again. "So it is, young Master! All right, we'll try this one. Remember... if it hurts at all, say so instantly."

He repeated the gesture on each of Merry's toes, striking the metal and setting the end to the nail of each battered digit. Merry watched but uttered no complaint. He did not even wince once.

"Well, that is good!" exclaimed the doctor.

"What does it mean, sir?" asked Pippin. He could not bear listening only and had crept into the room to watch the doctor work.

The doctor patted him on the head. "It means that your cousin is in the key of G sharp!" Everyone laughed, Merry loudest of all.

"That is good, because I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, sir!" he said jokingly.

"It also means that here are no broken bones in your foot, Master Merry," the doctor said. "I can see that you are deeply bruised, but a bit of willowbark a couple of times a day will take care of the pain, and you should keep it raised and keep off of it for several days. A warm soak in some salty water would help, too. No walks further than the parlour to the pantry, mind you, and try to avoid square dancing for a few weeks."

Pippin giggled and quipped, "That is very good, Doctor sir, 'cause Merry can't dance neither!" Merry grabbed Pippin and held him playfully with his arm locked around his head while everyone laughed.

Frodo forestalled anymore cousin-abuse by arriving at that moment with a trolley, laden with steaming a tea pot, cups and plates, piled high with fresh pies.

"If you are quite through being the center of attention, Merry, we might have a spot of tea," said Frodo with a smile. He was so relieved that Merry was not badly hurt. He served the doctor first, then Bilbo and the Gaffer (Bilbo insisted that he and Sam join them since they had missed their own tea, helping with Merry). Sam, Pippin, and Frodo sat nearby and listened politely while the older hobbits talked. They grinned at each other and kept Merry's plate full of sweets until he begged for no more.

Doctor Halebody mixed up a special cup of tea for Merry, who drank it with a face. He left a small bottle of powdered willowbark with Bilbo, along with instructions on how often and how much to use. Frodo listened, too, ready to back up his uncle's sometimes spotty memory.

The Doctor rose to leave with a parting word to Merry, "Give that father of yours my regards, Master Brandybuck. Tell him he is overdue to buy me a pint at the Golden Perch. Good day, Mr Baggins, Mr Gamgee. And to you, young ones! Do Merry's running about for the next few days, will you? There's some good lads!" and with that, he bowed and departed.

Frodo sat down next to Merry, pleased to see that his pain and frustration had eased. "It is a good thing, cousin, that your foot is in the key of G, I think."

Sensing that Frodo was in a silly mood, Merry cautiously asked, "Why is that, Frodo?"

"Why, 'tis better that your foot be sharp, than it B Flat!"

Merry groaned at Frodo's awful pun. "I am going to need more medicine if you are going to tell bad jokes all afternoon! Have pity on a poor crippled hobbit!"

Merriment rang through the halls and out of the many windows of Bag End, falling like welcome rain on the listening flowers.

**IV**

Bilbo closed the round door behind the doctor, latching it securely. To the Gaffer he said, "Thank you for helping with Meriadoc, Hamfast. I know you must get back about it, but do you think you can spare Samwise tonight?" Bilbo was looking at Sam as he said this, winking one eye slowly so that the Gaffer could not see," I think I shall be needing his services tonight, with all these extra mouths to feed. I shall set him up with supper and bed tonight, with your leave."

"Of course, Master Baggins!" said the Gaffer equably. "I'll send him 'round after his chores are met. He's been looking forward to Master Merry and Mr Peregrin's visit for some time." The Gaffer might have been reluctant once to allow Sam to learn his letters, fearing that such things would give him ideas above his station. But he knew how fond Bilbo was of the lad, and that he and Frodo were good friends. Children needed friends when they are young.

"You'll send him home if he becomes a bother, sir. But for now, we best get back to work. That garden don't weed itself, you know!"

The Gaffer and Sam left, and Bilbo looked at his young guests. Frodo was picking up cups and plates to tidy-up after tea. "Leave those for now, lad. I think we need to hear what really happened today."

Pippin wilted under Bilbo's firm gaze, and Merry looked at his quilt-covered toes. Neither said anything at first. Frodo smiled gently at his friends. "It's all right, Merry. You can tell Bilbo what happened. We know that Lotho and Ted are trying to make trouble. Bilbo will be better able to protect us and himself if he knows everything that they do."

Merry reluctantly began to speak. "We were walking up from the Green Dragon where Pip's father had dropped us off. He and Aunt Eglantine were taking the girls to visit Master Banks. It was just a short way up the Hill, so we said we would walk. We had just waved them away and were crossing the bridge when Pimple..." Merry turned bright red and corrected himself awkwardly, "..I mean Mr Lotho Sackville-..."

Bilbo laughed, "I think 'Pimple' is rather a good epithet for that one! Go on with your story, Merry."

Merry grinned as he realized that Bilbo was listening to his tales for a turn of fortune. He warmed up to his role as a storyteller. "Lotho came riding his pony across the bridge. I pulled Pippin aside before he could trample us; he did not even slow down. I doubt that he _could have _slowed that pony—even if he had tried. I am not sure that it is the pony's fault; Lotho doesn't know how to ride a horse, if you ask my opinion, sir." Merry paused, and when Bilbo did not reprimand him for his criticism of Lotho, he continued.

"He stopped once he reached the mill-side of the Water. Laughing at us, he was. When I gave him my opinion of his horsemanship, he threatened to strap the saddle on me and ride me up the Hill."

Pippin was hiding his face in Frodo's sleeve. Frodo put his arm around his young cousin and hugged him comfortingly.

Merry spoke on. "Well, sir, my answer to that suggestion is not to be found in any book of etiquette, I confess. He charged his pony right at us, sir, and I pushed Pippin down so that the pony wouldn't step on him. I wasn't quick enough to avoid being stepped on myself." Merry shifted his foot and winced.

Bilbo shook his head. "Reckless and rash! Oh, I am not blaming you, Meriadoc, though all this might have been avoided if you could have kept a cooler head." The old hobbit sighed. "He was trying to get you into a fight, dear boy. If you or Peregrin were injured while visiting me, Otho could possibly convince Paladin and Saradoc that your coming around to visit Uncle Bilbo was 'unsafe', which would lead possibly to my being pronounced 'unfit' as a guardian to my young nephew. They are trying to find a loophole through which they can seize control of Bag End. It is sad, that Otho should use his son to act through, and that he would stoop to such treachery as to contemplate risking young lives to satisfy his greed. He must be watched closely. We all must be more careful and not give him opportunities for further mischief."

Merry dropped his eyes, genuinely contrite. "I am sorry, sir, if my actions have compromised you or Frodo." He raised his head then, and a fire burned in his proud eyes. "My father would never believe such lies, I assure you!"

Bilbo smiled and felt the bottom of the teapot to see if the water was still warm. "I thank you, Merry. Let me go and get some more water on the boil. You will be needing another dose of medicine soon. Is your foot painful?"

"Not much, sir." Merry grimaced after Bilbo left the room. "That willowbark tea is awful!"

Frodo had set Peregrin on his knee and was patting his back gently. The little hobbit was very sad. "Perhaps you would like to lay down and take a nap, Pip?" asked Frodo softly. Pippin shook his head 'no', and clung to his cousin desperately. "You're perfectly safe here, lad. Bilbo would not let anyone hurt you, nor would I or Merry, as he proved today." Pippin sighed and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.

Merry motioned for Frodo to hand him over. He made room in the big chair that Bilbo had sat him in, tucking the blanket under Peregrin's chin. Softly, he said, "I really didn't have time to think. I just wanted to keep Pippin from getting hurt. He is still so small for his age."

Frodo smiled gently at them, then began to clear up the dishes and empty cups, saying, "He's like a little brother to me. I had not really missed all the other children at Brandyhall when I moved here, except you and one or two other close friends. But after Pip was born, I realized how nice it was to have younger hobbits around, to tell tales and teach games to." Frodo was gripped suddenly with the anger he had bottled up. His hand shook suddenly so that the china cup he had just picked up broke in his hand, and he cut himself on the shards. He exclaimed, placing his bleeding finger in his mouth.

Merry had a grim smile on his face. "Me, too, cousin. After you left Brandyhall, it was like loosing an older brother. I wish to be to Pippin what you are to me; someone who I can count on to be my friend, through thick and thin."

Frodo gripped Merry's shoulder. "I am that, Merry." They looked up at the sound of Bilbo returning. The older hobbit set a teapot down beside Merry, who could not disguise his aversion for what was coming.

"It has to taste bad, lad, or it won't make you feel better!" Bilbo said. "Now drink this down, and settle back for a spot of a nap yourself. Me and Frodo have some work to do in the kitchen."

Sam arrived just after sunset, and with his help Bilbo had a fine supper ready for Merry and Pippin when they woke from their naps. After eating until they were nearly somnolent again, the young hobbits sat and listened to Bilbo tell tales. Sam sat on the floor near the fire in rapt attention as Bilbo told a tale of the Elder Days; sad and exciting stories of valour and loss, betrayal and triumph in the face of evil.

Frodo was as attentive as the others. These tales he had only read about in his studies of the Elvish language, trying to decipher the strange writing of the Ancient Tongues. His eyes filled with tears as Bilbo described the voyage of Eärendil, sailing into the west to try and save the races of his mixed blood; Elves and Men.

Bedtime came too soon, and Bilbo settled Merry down in the spare bedroom off the parlour. The lad had not needed to hop more than a few steps, leaning on Frodo and Sam's shoulders. Pippin was set up in one of the small beds in the second guest room, Sam was bedded down in the other. But before he would lay down, Sam went around all the rooms and banked the fires, helping Frodo and Bilbo with the washing-up before he laid down himself. He was so tired that he was stumbling as he headed to bed.

Frodo wished him goodnight, checking on the sleeping Peregrin before heading to his own room. He laid down his head on the soft pillows and closed his eyes, but even as weary as he was, sleep eluded him for a long time. He watched the stars through the glass pane of his window.

Frodo heard the door to his room open and then close with a soft bang. He heard Pippin's tiny bare feet padding across the hook-rug, then the bed swayed and shifted as he climbed onto it, trailing his favourite quilt that his mother had made for him, that he took with him whenever he visited Bag End.

"Cousin Frodo? It is really dark in that bedroom."

"It is just as dark in here, Pippin, but yes, you can sleep here if you wish."

"Thank you, Frodo," Pippin snuggled into the hollow under Frodo's left arm. "I feel better sleeping next to someone who is braver than me."

Frodo rubbed Pippin's back until the child fell asleep. "I do, too, Pip," he said softly.

**V**

Frodo wasn't sure if it was some sound or the cold wind on his face that woke him in the dark of the night -- he was wide awake suddenly, just like someone had spoken his name inside his head. He sat up, scattering leaves and flower petals from his hair that had blown in on him through the window... he did not remember leaving it open that evening.

He threw the covers aside, thinking that perhaps Merry had called to him, and then he realized that Pippin was no longer asleep beside him. The quilt and pillow that the young Took had been using were still on the bed. Frodo ran his hands over the cloth; no warmth lingered upon them. His cousin had been gone for some time.

A touch of panic fluttered in Frodo's heart as he hastily dressed, pulling on breeches and tunic over his nightshirt. He quickly checked through the smial, looking first in the pantries for the notoriously hungry child. Merry's room was quiet but for the sounds of light breathing. The draught that Bilbo prepared for him that night had sent him to sleep quickly. Frodo did not disturb him; Pippin was not there.

He was going to check Bilbo's room, but noticed that the front door was ajar. He grabbed a cloak as he pulled the door open and stepped out.

The night was cold. Frodo wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and looked around. The moon was high and close to full; he could see clearly, though everything was grey and shadowy behind the hedge. The front gate was latched and too high for the young Took to reach, so Frodo headed around the burrow toward the garden. The hairs on his neck stood up as he heard voices ahead. As he passed the woodpile, he caught up a stout stick in his hands.

He nearly stumbled over Pippin. He was curled on the ground beneath the sheltering branches of a naked rosebush, covered in a blanket of leaves. He was soundly sleeping, his hands pillowing his cheek.

Frodo laid down his stick and touched Peregrin's shoulder to wake him gently. "Pippin! What no earth are you doing out here in the middle night?" Frodo removed his cloak and wrapped the child in it.

Pippin roused enough to wrap his arms around Frodo's neck and say, "I got lost, Frodo. I thought I was at home... your garden is too big!" The young Took laid his head on Frodo's shoulder and closed his eyes. "Tell Firtle thanks for keeping me warm," he murmured as sleep claimed him again.

Frodo wondered why that name sounded familiar. He stared around the garden, all the plants glistening with dew in the moonlight. A dream that was a memory woke in his head, and he understood.

He spoke softly, so that Pippin would not wake, "Thank you for protecting my little cousin. You are welcome here, if you plan no mischief. I thought you were a dream… " Frodo couldn't think of anymore to say. He felt a little foolish, talking to an empty garden. He picked up Pippin and returned to the house.

Sam met him on the doorstep, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Mr Frodo? Who're you talking to out there?" Sam helped Frodo settle Pippin back in Frodo's room. "Was there someone in the garden, sir?"

"Just the flowers and moonlight, Sam," Frodo answered. "Go on back to sleep. I think Pip has been sleepwalking, and I feel as though I have been myself, too."

Sam went back to bed, but Frodo sat up and watched Pippin sleep, prying into the corners of his own mind that still refused to yield the full bounty of his memories.

⌂

In the garden, Firtle gathered in his thin arms the leaves he had shed to cover the little hobbit. Stint regarded him with eyes shining in the waning moonlight. "You look like an early autumn, Firtle!"

Firtle was not amused. "Taking too long will Ah be, putting back on these leaves! Root me out for sure that gardener will, thinking Ah have up and died! Be helping me, Stint!

"Maybe we should just hang out in the hedge. As long as we keep our heads down, we shouldn't get trimmed back too much! I was dressed as a bird's nest for only a day, and already some silly plover has laid her eggs on me! Life out of the Grove is strange and dangerous for a woodsprite. Should we go home?" Stint asked doubtfully.

"This place, Ah'm liking, Stint. Seeing Meester Froda is making me glad. Stay awhile, lets! Beneath his window, dwell Ah will, and hear his laughter that makes my heart high!" Firtle left his leaves on the path and went to peer into the window that Stint had managed to open earlier, when he had roused Frodo to come and find the little one. It was closed tightly now, but the woodsprites could see their hobbit sitting in a rocking chair by the fire. His brow was creased and he seemed tired and sad. Firtle purred with sympathy. "No laughter and singing now. Sad is Meester Froda."

Stint wound himself into the ivy that circled the window, making room for the broader sprite below the sill. "We'll see that he has no more reason to be sad this night, Firtle. Let us watch and fight for our _aewnr_." Stint watched as Firtle garbed himself in holly to blend in to the rest of the bushes beneath the window. "Oh, Firtle! That is a good look for you!"

"Shhh! Wake them you will, noisy! Meester Froda has fallen asleep at last."

**  
VI**

_**Author's Note:** What are we while we grow but the sum of what we see and feel? When do we find out who we are and realize that we have the will to be what we choose, rather than what we are taught to be? When is it right to raise your fist rather than turn your cheek? And what can change fear into forgiveness?_

Merry spent the next day in complete misery, longing to get up and go cavorting about the Shire with Frodo and Pippin, but Bilbo firmly forbade this. After some intense negotiating, Merry got Bilbo to allow him to hobble about with a cane that first day (it was actually a shillelagh that Bilbo had received as a birthday present some years before). Frodo and Pippin tried to keep Merry in his chair by offering to play games and sing songs in the parlour, but after an evening of immobility, the young Brandybuck wanted to go outside and feel the sunshine on his face.

They spent the morning in the garden until the Gaffer chased them out, sending Samwise along with them down to the Pool to catch some fish. Merry kept one hand on Frodo's shoulder and with his shillelagh, he managed limp down the Hill easily.

Merry commented that afternoon on Frodo's quietness. His cousin had said very little that day and the evening before, falling often into staring into the middle distance when he was not addressed directly. Frodo smiled and ruffled Pip's hair, causing the young Took to squawk in protest. "I am just tired," Frodo answered simply. He settled back against a tree and napped while the others flung their lines into the water.

Merry watched Frodo until he was sure that his cousin was truly asleep. Pippin had wandered around the edge of the Pool, watching some ants trooping toward their anthill. Merry waved Sam to come closer.

"I call this meeting of the Conspirators to order!" Merry whispered with a grin. "What have you learned since my last visit, Sam?"

Sam ducked his head with a guilty smile. "I wish you wouldn't call us that, Merry. I feel bad enough, spying on Mr Frodo and Mr Bilbo." Merry had insisted that Sam not call him "Mr" or "Master" while they convened their meetings to discuss what they had learned about Bilbo's Ring. It was not very often that the young Bucklander and the gardener's son were alone together long enough to talk, but both were still keen to solve their mystery.

"Not much to tell, I'm afraid. I haven't had much time to spend listening to Mr Bilbo lately, with the vegetable garden going in and all the weeding. I did hear Mr Bilbo say something the other day about the Sackville-Bagginses. I am not sure if it has ought to do with… the Ring…" Sam whispered meaningfully, looking around to insure they were not being overheard. "I heard him call Mr Otho a fat…"

"Heads together and whispering?" Peregrin Took poked his own head between the two hobbits, having crept up silently behind them. "What is it you are talking about, cousin and Sam? What about Uncle Bilbo? Do you mean the magic ring that he used to fight the dragon?"

Merry shushed Pippin and glanced toward Frodo in alarm. His cousin had not moved; he was breathing softly and had his eyes closed.

Sam was bright red and biting his knuckle. Their secret was discovered! How ever would he face Mr Frodo now, if word got out that he was… a spy! He hung his head in shame.

Merry looked close at Pippin, placing a finger on his lips. "Can you keep a secret, Mr Peregrin Took?"

Pippin nodded eagerly, getting into the mystery and intrigue; an appealing game to the young hobbit. "You have to swear, Pippin! Swear you won't tell another living soul what we are about to tell you!" Merry said sternly.

"I promise! 'Cross my heart and hope to die, if word be said it won't be I'!" Pippin whispered fiercely.

In spite of Sam's misgivings, Merry told Pippin the tale about how the two had formed their 'conspiracy' to learn more about the magic ring that Bilbo had brought back to the Shire, just for their own knowing and not to be shared about. "You are a good friend to Frodo, and we know you admire and respect Bilbo, too, Pippin," Merry said after the story was out. "You can be a member of our conspiracy, but you have to promise never to let any word slip to anyone! If you do… me and Sam will never speak to you again!" Merry doubted that threats were necessary to obtain Peregrin's loyalty but he really couldn't think of any punishment that the bold young Took feared except loss of friendship.

Pip's eyes grew large and filled with tears. "I would never do that, Merry! I swear I won't tell."

"Won't tell what?" asked Frodo, yawning. He had roused only that moment, but his words made all three hobbits jump like they had sat on a bed of live coals. Merry and Sam glanced at each other in alarm.

"Won't tell you that you snore like a dragon, Frodo Baggins," said Pippin swiftly, running to tackle Frodo where he lay. "We caught six fish! Do you think Uncle Bilbo would like fish for supper?" Merry and Sam sighed with relief. Peregrin was an excellent choice for a co-conspirator.

Frodo laughed and tickled Pippin. "I am sure he is counting on it! I am glad you all had such luck… I lost the day and did not catch anything but forty winks!"

They headed back to the hole, singing in the soft twilight. As they passed the mill, Frodo paused. The memories and thoughts that had been drifting back to him were weighing on his heart, and he wanted to confront them. "Sam, take Merry up the hill, will you? I will follow along in a moment."

Sam stepped under Merry's hand, a worried look in his face. "Are you sure, Frodo?" asked Merry, hopping a little. "We could wait for you…" the mill loomed dark behind them, and Merry could see the uncertainty in Frodo's eyes.

"Yes, I am sure. Take Pippin with you and wait for me in the parlour. I will be home in time for supper… have you ever known me to be late to a meal?"

Merry snorted, "Constantly!" but he obeyed, hobbling uphill in the gloaming. Pippin walked backward slowly, until Merry called to him to hurry up.

When they were away, Frodo turned toward the mill. The draft-pony and cart were there, laden with cut logs from the fallen tree. In a moment of sheer fancy, Frodo wondered if the branch that had struck him senseless was among that pile of timber. He could not bring himself to approach the mill. Fear warred with desire, to know and to speak with the miller and confront him about what had happened that day on the road. Frodo's memory was still incomplete, but he knew that the miller would have some answers about it.

Before Frodo could force himself to knock on the door, a hand descended on his shoulder and he was thrown to the ground. He would have exclaimed but a knee driven into his stomach robbed him of breath.

Ted knelt on his chest and before Frodo could throw him off, he drew back a knotted fist and punched Frodo in the mouth. Then he stood up and laughed.

"What you doing creeping around here, Baggins? I would have thought a clever fellow like you would know that a beating was waiting here for you and those cousins of yours! I am sick of your high-handed ways and arrogance! I don't see anything that makes you better than me. Here is another reason to stay away," and he aimed a kick at Frodo's ribs.

Frodo rolled away before the kick could land. He scrambled up and launched himself at Ted, all the anger and frustration that he had swallowed coming out of him in a roar. He grabbed Ted and shoved him against the wall of the mill with a bang. He knotted his fists in Ted's tunic and leaned against him so that the other hobbit could not kick him again.

"Listen to me, Ted Sandyman, because I am not going to say this twice," Frodo said evenly, spitting blood from his squashed mouth. "You can and shall do what you will toward me, but you stay away from my cousins. If I ever hear of you threatening them or harming them in any way, I shall come back here and finish this beating. Do you understand?" To make his point clear, Frodo butted Ted in the face with his hard head.

Frodo was astonished by the feeling of rage that was burning inside him. Years of submission and swallowing insults seemed to catch up with him. He restrained himself from hitting Ted again but hung on to his shirt tight, staring into his reddening eyes.

Ted was taken aback by the fierceness of Frodo's attack. He had not had anyone fight back against him with such force and determination. For the first time, the bully tasted the fear he had caused for so many. He tried to wriggle away from Frodo. Frodo lifted him from his feet and pinned him against the mill wall.

Dangling from Frodo's hands, Ted heard movement in the mill behind and he called out in a loud voice, "Ow! Ouch! Dad! Dad, come quick!" and had the satisfaction of watching Frodo blanche and step back. His face had gone white in complete terror as the door of the mill was flung open and a figure appeared, silhouetted by the fiery furnace behind.

Frodo's anger fled with the appearance of Ted's father. Though he was of no less height than the older hobbit (thanks to the draught of the woodsprites) and of only a little less weight, the memory of what the miller had done to Frodo towered in his mind. He loosed Ted and stepped back and stumbled, falling and raising an arm to deflect the blow he expected from those feared, callused fists.

Sandyman did not strike Frodo. He grabbed his son by the arm and propelled him toward the mill. "Get inside, boy. I'll deal with you later." He walked up to Frodo and offered him his hand.

Stunned by this unexpected gesture, Frodo took his hand cautiously and allowed the miller to pull him to his feet.

The miller helped Frodo up and offered him a handkerchief for his bleeding lip, saying gently, "Don't be afraid of me, lad. I promise I won't hurt you again."

Frodo was still flushed from the fight with Ted and he didn't feel the pain of his split lip or any of his bruises. He was confused by his own fear and returning memories. Vividly he recalled the scene on the Woody End road, each detail now clear in his mind; the falling tree and him pushing the miller aside; the blow on his head and the miller's words that he should have died with his parents or never been born. Like a canker those words had eaten into his heart, leaving an ache that Frodo had no words to describe.

"Why?" Frodo spoke the word softly, and then repeated it with more heat. "Why? Why did you say that to me? What did I ever do to earn such treatment from you?"

Sandyman bowed his head. Softly he answered, "If'n I could un-do what I have done, I would." The miller raised his eyes and looked at Frodo. "I'm sorry, son."

Ted was standing near, having disobeyed his father's order to go into the mill. "What do you mean, dad? What did you do?"

The miller looked at the ground and said in an even firm tone, "Go on into the mill, Ted. This is no business o' yours." When Ted did not move immediately, Sandyman turned on him and snarled, "Get inside now! Go on, boy!"

Ted flinched at the strength of his father's reprimand. Turning slowly, he looked at Frodo with a stare of pure hatred before going inside the building and slamming the door.

The miller faced Frodo again. His eyes were full of tears; a startling sight to the young hobbit. Sandyman spoke in a shadow of a voice, so soft that Frodo could barely hear him though he stood only a short span away. "I'd go back and change things, if'n I could. What I did… it were wrong, and since that day I've cursed m'self for being a coward and a blackheart. I really were glad to see you all right, that day you crossed the bridge with that wizard. I ne'er expected to see you again…" The miller cleared his throat, sighing as he confessed, "I'd been listening to talk that I should'na paid heed to. I'll not heed it again. I swear I'll not raise a hand to hurt you, Frodo Baggins. I'm sorry."

Frodo felt his fury turn to ashes as he watched the miller weep in front him. "And Bilbo?" Frodo was surprised to hear his own voice so steady and calm-sounding, "And my cousins?"

"I'll ne'er do ought to hurt any of them. I swear it!" Sandyman met Frodo's eyes, and Frodo knew that the miller spoke the truth.

Frodo relaxed his shoulders and raised his head. Taking a deep breath, he said softly, "I accept your apology, Mr Sandyman, and your promises. Let there be no more fear and anger between you and I." Frodo turned and proceeded up the Hill, feeling taller and colder than ever he had in all his life.

He also felt Ted's eyes burning on his back, all the way home, until the round green door closed behind him, shutting out the night.

**Epilogue**

Otho was drinking at his table at the Grain and Sack Inn, trying to read some papers he had brought with him. He was too distracted to read them, however. He was wondering why Sandyman was late, and why he had sent no answer to his message.

He heard the front door open, but the landlord sounded no alarm. Instead of the miller, Otho was surprised to see his son Lotho walk in with a shifty-eyed lad dressed in scruffy clothes.

Otho did not like the look of this ratty hobbit-child standing next to his son. He had a blackened eye, and was heavy-set and strong-looking. He seemed a little familiar. Otho ignored the lad. To Lotho he said "Do you have a message from Sandyman for me, boy?" asked Otho brusquely.

"No, father, I have something better than that for you. My friend Ted here has some interesting things to tell." Lotho gestured to the hobbit beside him.

Otho reluctantly condescended to speak to him. "Aren't you the miller's son? Where is he?"

Ted answered the question with a scowl. "He's not here, Mr Otho sir, and not likely to be coming. I don't think he even read that letter you sent."

Otho was appalled. "He didn't read it? Why not?" Lotho was smiling slightly and that made Otho wonder what was going on. He jabbed a finger at a seat, "Sit down, boy… Ted, isn't it?"

"Yessir. I saw the letter when it arrived. I gave it to him when he got home after trying to uproot the Thain's sickly tree. He just tossed it in the furnace without opening it." Ted picked up Otho's mug and poured some ale into it, drinking it down. He wiped his mouth and looked meaningfully at the older hobbit. "But I know what the letter said. I broke the seal before he got home. Mr Sackville-Baggins, my dad has no desire anymore to do business with you regarding the Bagginses of Bag End… but I do! Just tell me what you want."

Otho looked at his son, and a smile spread across his face. This might be even better that what he had planned. He fished in his pocket and handed Ted a coin. "Very good, young Mr Sandyman. I'll be in touch."


	12. Ch 12 Clandestine Councils

**Chapter 11: Clandestine Councils  
**_in three parts_

I

**Undesirable**

Frodo closed the door softly behind him. He removed his cloak and moved to hang it up, but stopped when he realized it was spotted with blood. He sighed, believing he knew what his uncle's reaction would be to the state of his face. There was no hiding this bruise; his mouth probably looked like a squashed plum. He laid the cloak over his arm and went into the parlour, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

Bilbo was out of his chair and at his side the moment he saw. Merry exclaimed and half-rose, bumping his foot and hissing. Pippin looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. Sam was tending the fire and turned at the sound of Merry's outburst. The chunk of wood he was about to lay on the flames slipped from his hand and _**thunked**_ onto the floor.

"I am all right," Frodo said.

Bilbo pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Frodo. "Can you tell me what happened, lad? When Merry and Pippin came in, they said that you were right behind them. Did you take a fall?"

"No, uncle. I stopped to speak with Mr Sandyman." Frodo winced as talking split his lip again. He pressed the cloth to his mouth.

Bilbo's face had gone white. "He didn't do this to you, did he?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"No, sir. This was a matter between his son and I." Frodo was suddenly reluctant to speak. How much should he tell and what should be left unsaid?

Bilbo looked at him with a penetrating gaze. "You know I can't condone fighting, Frodo. You are too old for such things and I know you are smarter than that." He glanced at the younger hobbits standing and listening. "This doesn't set a good example for your cousins."

Frodo lowered his head humbly, accepting Bilbo's criticism.

Each of the younger hobbits leapt up to defend their cousin. "It wasn't his fault, cousin Bilbo!" said Merry, loudly echoed by Peregrin. Sam stood next to Frodo, as if he could share Frodo's shame or intercept punishment in his stead by simply being nearby.

"It's not his fault," Merry had tears trickling down his face, flushed with his own pain and humiliation. "That Ted Sandyman was there this afternoon when Lotho ran his pony into us!"

Pippin gasped and stared at Merry. Well, at least he hadn't told the secret this time! But he shared in the guilt of lying to Bilbo, and his own tears began to fall.

Bilbo placed a gentle hand on Peregrin's shoulder. "All right, all right, we are getting too excited here! Frodo, go and take care of that cut of yours. Merry, sit down and stop banging around that foot. Sam, do set another log on the fire and then come and help me in the kitchen. Peregrin, dry your eyes now, lad," Bilbo said kindly. "I am not going to eat Frodo or any of you, so don't be afraid. I just wish you had all told me the truth first." Though Bilbo was speaking to Pippin when he said this, Frodo heard the words as if they had been for his ears alone.

Frodo nodded and obeyed his uncle. His cheeks were scarlet with shame and his head hurt where he had butted Ted. His whole skull ached as if it were cracked like a melon. He went into the bath room and poured a basin of water and bathed his face and hands. The water quickly became pink.

He ran his fingers through his hair and felt he tiny scar over his ear, hidden by his thick curls. He had accomplished what he had wanted, and the answers were all now before him, plain in his mind, except for one. Who had the Miller been listening to, who had almost convinced Sandyman to commit murder?

Frodo's hands began to shake. It hadn't been like that, really. 'It was an accident... not like the Miller hand tried to kill me...' he thought, 'but he did not bring me home or help me. If it hadn't been for Gandalf, I might have died. Or would I have died if the Miller had been taken me on to Hobbiton, and Gandalf had not found me?'

Had Gandalf healed him, or did that happen earlier? These moments were still cloudy and confusing for Frodo. Visions of angry trees with sparks flying from their deep eyes and crows in the woodpile was all he could recall. He had woken up at one point, he was sure, before Gandalf had appeared. He remembered drinking water and feeling peace and ease. That was when the dreams had become vivid.

A soft knock on the door roused Frodo. He was standing with his hands soaking in cooling water. Sam opened the door and came inside with a nod.

"Mr Bilbo sent me in, sir, to see if you are all right. Let me fetch some fresh water, Mr Frodo."

"Thank you, Sam." Frodo pulled himself together with an effort. His head ached terribly, but he dunked it into the basin that Sam filled for him, soaking his sore head.

Sam wrapped a towel over his shoulders and then brought Frodo a clean shirt to change into. Sam picked up the one he had discarded, stained and torn. "My sister May can mend this up, sir, after we get the stains out." Sam looked at the rusty spots on the linen. A light kindled in his eyes, of admiration and love for his master. "How much of this is his, sir, if you don't mind my asking?"

Frodo was drying his hair. He lowered the towel and a small smile bent his lips, not enough to reopen the tender cut again, but plenty to convey a spark of mischief in those cerulean eyes. "Not as much as he left on his own shirt, Sam." Frodo squinted at him and murmured, "It will be a while before he messes with Merry and Pippin again, but you and I... and Bilbo, too... we must be careful, Sam."

"Aye, I reckon you're right, Mr Frodo. But now we won't be the only ones being careful!"

Frodo's smile faded and he shivered, water tickling down his face like sweat. He knew in his heart that Sam was right, and it chilled him.

⌂

There was fried fish and chips for supper that night, and by the end of the meal everyone was in a better humour. Bilbo was clearly not going to punish Frodo or send Merry or Pippin home early, and in the way of hobbits—and particularly hobbit-children—they were soon distracted by good food, warmth, and cheer. Sam was to be complimented on his usual excellence in the handling of the fish and taters, a cooking skill for which he was justifiably proud. Frodo ate his share, conscious of the fact that nobody looked at his bruises or mentioned them at all.

After dinner the young hobbits quickly became drowsy. Merry had to take his medicine and that usually put him to sleep. Pippin curled up next to him on the couch and the older hobbit-lad draped his quilt over him. Pippin nestled into his chest and fell asleep.

Sam went home after helping Bilbo and Frodo clean up the supper dishes. Bilbo was putting together a second supper for himself and Frodo when his nephew finally spoke.

"I do apologize, Uncle Bilbo, if I have caused you problems. I did not go seeking a fight." Frodo was drying a cup carefully; he had broken enough of them in his fits of humour. He set it on a shelf and picked up another. Bilbo nodded, listening. He had learned long ago to give Frodo the time he needed to think before he spoke. He knew that he would hear truth or nothing from Frodo. They had no secrets between them.

Frodo continued. "Mr Sandyman was on the Woody End road the day I took my 'accident'. He knew things I wished to learn, things I couldn't remember." Frodo went on in a steady voice, as if telling a tale he had heard once upon a time, all the things he could remember that happened that day. Bilbo said nothing, though his face became more solemn and lined with age and care as the story broadened.

After Frodo finished the tale, he spoke to Bilbo his riddle: What if the deed Sandyman had done had actually saved Frodo's life by bringing him to Gandalf, however round-about it happened?

"I had to talk to him, sir, and learn why he had done this thing. He told me that he had been listening to someone, and that he would listen to them no more. I do not fear anything from Mr Sandyman anymore, Bilbo. He is genuinely contrite. He may never be a friend, but I do not think he will hurt us again. But this talker he spoke of... I wonder, what mischief is brewing in the Shire?"

Bilbo sighed gently, puffing out his cheeks like a dwarf's bellows. He looked at Frodo with respect and sympathy. "What a good lad you are, Frodo! Everyday I am reminded what a fine choice I made, bringing you home to Bag End and making you my heir. You have wisdom beyond your years and a heart-full of forgiveness and love that could not be better shaped if it were wrought by Elven smiths. Sometimes I wonder how a hobbit like you could have been invented, almost by accident... certainly with more disadvantages and obstacles than most must face in their lives. And you are barely 30 years old!

"Of course, you did the right thing and I am proud of you for it! I never doubted that you were motivated by gallantry and honour. My fear was that this incident could be used to garner folk's thinking to lead to you being labeled an 'undesirable', and that might lead then to exile."

Frodo looked up in shock. "Exile? From Hobbiton?"

Bilbo gave his nephew a sad look. "From the Shire, Frodo. It doesn't happen very often, and when it does, folk don't talk about it. The hobbit that is exiled is forgotten, turned out of hole and shown the borders of the Shire and forbidden to return. Many long years it has been since such a thing has happened, but it has... yes, it has. I remember..." and he grew silent, as if the taboo of hobbit-civil law prevented him from speaking of it further.

Frodo placed his head in his hands, feeling the headache starting to return. Exile... a never imagined horror. His uncle in Buckland had warned him, when his childhood was turning to t'weenhood and his pranks seemed to become more deliberate than mischievous, that he would not be tolerated if the actions continued. Frodo had always assumed that they meant he would be spanked or grounded or somehow punished for his deeds, and he had always accepted his penance when he had been caught. It had not occurred to him—not sunk into his thick skull—that other punishments could be worse, and more permanent.

After long moments of silence, broken by the whistling of the kettle, Frodo asked, "Who do you remember getting exiled, Bilbo, if I may ask?"

"That is not a tale for tonight, my lad. But I am glad that you are aware of this now, and perhaps that is part of the good that will come of all this madness. Much good has come, actually, though I hate to see you lads hurt... that lip of yours, Frodo! You'll need to stay in the smial for a few days, until that fades. If folk see, they will talk. We can't have that risked. We have Merry's foot for a good excuse to stay inside, and hopefully we will get some rain tomorrow.

"You see now, don't you lad? It isn't my reputation that I fear will be damaged, nor public opinion about my state of mind. I am old and wealthy, and so they tolerate me as an eccentric. But you have much living ahead of you, and this is your home. We can't risk you losing it, nor give anyone the leverage they need to remove you from it."

Frodo looked at his uncle. "You know who it is, don't you? The one saying things... the one who spread rumours and cost me Rosie Cotton's friendship, and who bent Mr Sandyman's ear. You always tell me not to worry. I am afraid that I am worried now, Bilbo. Can you tell me who it is?"

Bilbo sighed and stood up, coming round the table to Frodo's side. He scooted a chair close to his nephew and looked him steadily in the eye. "I did you no favours, lad, bringing you into this mess. Your cousin Otho seems to be more wretched and devious than I would have credited even a Sackville-Baggins. I suspect—suspect, mind you—for I have no evidence other than my own intuition that he is the one who has initiated this campaign against you. He never struck me before as being very clever or particularly greedy, before I left with the Dwarves, that is. But somehow, since I have returned, his desire for Bag End and my position has increased, and his honour and conscious, such as it was, has apparently decreased in proportion. I wonder what has wrought this change upon him? That is _**my**_ riddle."

**II  
**  
**No Secrets**

Ted returned from Sackville on foot, cutting through fields and yards in his haste. If his father noticed he was gone, he would earn a lick or two from his belt for it. It would be worth it and he wouldn't tell where he had been, but still, why risk the pain?

The gold coin was a weight in his pocket; it felt good. He wanted more and he smiled to know that he would be able to get more and serve himself as well. The Hill of Bag End was loaded with such loot, it was often said. Gold and jools—whatever those were—and fine things beyond imagination. All he had to do for now was watch, listen, and report. He hoped that soon he would be asked to do more. His palms itched to get hold of that sassy Baggins upstart again!

But Mr Sackville-Baggins had been clear; he was not to tangle with Frodo again. Indeed, he had been encouraged to make peace and gain Frodo's trust. More would be said in his hearing, if he was considered a friend.

Ted doubted that this would occur quickly. For all his foolishness and sentimentality, Frodo was not stupid. A touch too forgiving and gullible, though, and that could work to Ted's advantage. After a piece of time, there was a chance that Ted could work his way into Frodo's circle of friends.

So he shelved his hatred and placed his desire for revenge deep in his heart, and he fed it with every bitter thought he had and every imagined slight he felt. A fair face he would show, until the day came for the come-uppance. On that day, Frodo Baggins would reap a grim harvest.

⌂

Samwise closed the backdoor of Bag End carefully, taking his time making his way home. It had been a long day, and he wanted to think over the things that had happened. He wasn't all together sure he understood what had happened to Mr Frodo, but he knew that Ted Sandyman would not consider the matter closed, even after a beating. Sam had had trouble with that hobbit before.

He walked through the garden, taking a detour to his home in Bagshot Row. The night had fallen softly, and the ground was still warm from the summer sun. Fireflies danced in the trellises, and there was a sound like bells or soft music, coming perhaps from across the Water where the Green Dragon Inn stood, full of merrymaking hobbits.

Samwise twisted his ear and listened again. Yes, there were voices... but it wasn't an echo from the Inn that he heard. There were distinct voices, and they were coming from the further corner of the garden.

Sam approached cautiously, hefting a shovel he had picked up from where he had left it earlier. He crept into the garden, looking through the darkness for intruders. The voices had fallen silent, and only the winking of the fireflies lit the grounds. There was no one there.

Sam shrugged and turned, toting his shovel home. Too much to think about, and now he was hearing things. It was time for Samwise Gamgee to get some sleep.

When the hobbit was well away, the short fat shrubbery slapped a thick limb across a ropy arm of ivy that grew nearby. "Speaking you always too loud, Stint! Discovered you will be one day, and not there to save you shall Ah be, perhaps! Doing you then what Ah cannot guess!"

Stint unwound himself from the trellis. "I wouldn' speak so loud if you wouldn' argue with me, Firtle. Besides, I don't believe that you'd leave me so. Together we're bound, to look after our _aewn_. Now we've more _aewnr_ to look after! This is fun! We shoulda left the Grove long ago!"

"Shh! There again you go shouting! Quiet be! Walking around the garden go! Round the delving Ah shall go, keeping away all shadows. For this we followed him here, and so we shall do."

"He spoke to us!" cackled Stint, who clasped his mouth shut to stifle the shrill giggle of joy, "He knows we are here, and he didn't send us away! O sweet little _aewn_ Frodo! How glad I am, to have found him!"

Firtle nodded and went on his walk. He could still hear Stint talking to himself excitedly. Lucky they were, the sprite reflected as he waddled past the glazed windows, that these creatures slept deeply and did not hear with ears of a predator.

The hour of darkest night was approaching. Now was the busiest time for the sprites. For dangers there were, small and unseen, that they drove away with word and barb. Firtle prepared his bow and quiver of darts, each tipped with numbing sap. Any creature touched by this sap would suffer paralysis of the limbs. If enough barbs found a target, it would fall stunned.

The sprites employed their craft to fend off the airs and humours of lost spirits, who rode the winds of mortal lands and would seek places to rest and bring mischief at times. Firtle knew that mortals could not see these spirits. Elves could see them, but they did not pay them heed for they were mostly harmless. Firtle kept them away from his new charge, and drove away ones he found rooted there, that fed on the life-force of Bag End. The halflings contributed to this force, and the Hill itself was, of course, living earth. A special place with a magic of its own, it was, and Firtle and Stint had their woody hands full protecting it.

⌂

Merry woke when something passed beyond the glazed window under which he was lying. He looked out, seeing only darkness and a few wan stars. Pippin was a weight on his shoulder. He felt warm and drowsy, yet he could not return to sleep. He heard Bilbo and Frodo speaking softly from the kitchen. He longed to rise and listen, but he was anchored in place by his young cousin and, of course, this cursed bruised foot!

He shifted it uncomfortably. How irritating it was, to be laid up when there was mischief afoot! How he would have pummeled that Ted Sandyman, if only he had been there! A good whack with that shillelagh would have cleared up the matter!

Or perhaps it would have made matters worse. Merry couldn't see how what Frodo had done was as bad as Bilbo had tried to make it sound. In Buckland, a hobbit that stood up for himself and his friends was honoured and respected. True, Frodo and Merry himself were a trifle young yet to be handled as adults. The elders did not behave so. Arguments were always worded, and fisticuffs between adults were a matter for the Master of Buckland to arbitrate. Usually such things never went beyond a friendly disagreement.

Merry looked down into the face of his young cousin. Pippin's cheeks were still streaked with the tears he had shed earlier, and there was a smear of berry juice from the pie he had ate for aftersupper. For a moment Merry regretted involving the child in these 'shenanigans'; so Bilbo would call them—if he knew about his and Samwise's clandestine surveillance. "We've got a job of work ahead of us, so we have, Pippin," he said softly.

"What do you mean, Merry?" Pippin said.

Merry jerked with surprise; Peregrin was not asleep. He looked down again to see the young Took's green eyes wide and curious, lying still, close against his shoulder.

"I thought you were asleep, Pip!" he exclaimed.

Pippin yawned. "I woke up when I smelled Uncle Bilbo's coffee. I was tryin' to hear what Frodo was saying, but you were breathing too loud!"

Merry chuckled. "I ought to tell you that eavesdropping is a bad thing to do, Peregrin Took, but I am afraid that I was doing the exact same thing." He smiled at his cousin. "I fear I shall be a bad influence on you, Pippin!"

"Never!" Pippin snuggled into the hollow of Merry's shoulder again. "If loyalty and bravery is a bad influence, then all hobbits could use a dose of such! My dad would agree."

"You aren't going to tell him about our secret, are you Pip?" Merry asked hesitantly.

"Of course not! He would not approve of how we do things, even if he did respect why we did them. I may be young, but I'm not stupid!"

Merry smiled and hugged Pippin to him. "No, you are not stupid." They lay still for a while, still hearing soft voices beyond the closed door, muffled and indistinct. Bilbo was speaking now, and even the soft night breeze was louder than his whispers.

Merry closed his eyes and succumbed to his willowbark draught, but Peregrin lay awake for some time. He wondered if he had done a bad thing, lying to Merry about not being able to hear what Frodo and Bilbo had said.

_aewn means "little one" _

**  
III Outside Help **

It had been a long uncomfortable ride. Otho made a note to himself to never - never travel beyond the borders of the Shire again. From the moment he had crossed Sarn Ford until he reached the gates of Bree, it had rained nonstop. Not uncommon for the time of year or the climate, but Otho was in no mood to be reasonable. There was devilry and danger Outside... but that was why he had come.

Some things are just not done in the Shire. Even the basest, most unpleasant hobbit, living in the humblest hole or shack would not stoop to villainy. Hobbits were not violent, murderous, or warlike. For these commodities one had to seek beyond the sheltered fields and woods.

One of the river hobbits had told him about a town of Men not far from Buckland, a couple days easy ride by pony from the west or about three from the south Greenway. The hobbit had advised Otho to never stray there, for there were to be found 'odd folk of an unsavoury sort'.

He had planned to send the miller on this distasteful errand, but Sandyman had refused to read or answer Otho's messages, and would no longer discuss the Bagginses with Otho at all. There were no others that Otho felt he could trust; Sandyman's son, while eager and nicely unscrupulous, was nevertheless too young and Otho did not know if he would hold his tongue. He was brash and loud, and sneaky and mean. Otho would put him to other uses.

So here he was, Otho Sackville-Baggins, soaking wet on the back of a pony, waiting outside the gate of Bree. Night was falling with the rain as he rode up and kicked the planks of the door, not wishing to dismount and soil his feet.

He could barely hear his own knocking over the sound of the rain, though he pounded as hard as he could. Somehow, the gatekeeper heard and came to investigate. The barrier was a sturdy line of planks, closed firmly. The Man who watched the gate trudged through the mud to stare over the fence at the hobbit.

"What do _you_ want?" he asked, annoyed to be drawn into the rain.

Otho was not intimidated. He had dealt with some Men before, and had found that their height and brawniness were surpassed only by their greed and stupidity. "I _want_ to get out of this dreary rain and into an inn with a bed and board!"

The man lifted a lantern and took a good look at him. "Ye ain't from round 'ere... who are ya?"

Otho offered him a name he had prepared, so that his own name would go unmarked. "I am Mr Mardoc Brandybuck. I have business in Bree, so open the gate, if you please."

The man frowned at him, fumbling with the latch. "Buckland's to the west 'long the Greenway. Wha' ya doin' comin' in from the south?"

"Getting wet," Otho said tersely, pushing through the slowly opening gate with his pony. He hurried through the town, following the road. This inn he was looking for—the Dancing Pony or some such—was supposed to be just at the foot of this monstrous hill.

It was just as well that it was dark, Otho reflected grimly; he did not like the look of all these buildings with their many levels and gleaming windows like eyes. He felt scrutinized.

He urged his pony onward, ignoring the fact the creature was weary from a long ride. He had seen more lights ahead, and heard the familiar clink of mug and platter amid raucous laughter.

The inn was a huge sprawling series of buildings, three storeys high that climbed up the hill behind. There was a courtyard and a corral and stable where a horse and a couple of oxen stood, munching on grain and fodder. The front door was open despite the rain, and smells of food and sounds of cheer came out like waves of warmth from a promised fire. Otho dismounted and left his pony in the yard.

Inside he was washed with smoke and the smells of working men. There was mud caked on the floor, which Otho stepped carefully through. Before he could remove his sodden cloak, a short man with a stout middle came bustling up to him, wiping his hands on his apron and bowing. His face was red and his head was balding, and he smiled in a friendly way to his guest.

"Barliman Butterbur at your service, little master! What may I be doing for you?"

"Supper and a bed, if you please. And there's a pony in the courtyard that need stabling." Otho attempted to generate some charm. "It is a cold night and the end of a long ride. Is there a private place where I could rest and eat?"

"Of course, of course!" Barliman helped him shed his dripping cloak, hanging it beside a row of other similar garments in various stages of drying. He led him to a small cozy parlour with a roaring fire. A young hobbit was setting a hot meal on the table when they came inside. "Young Nob saw you coming, sir, with his long sharp eyes, so he did. We rather guessed you be wanting a spot of something hot. Now, how about a nice ale to go with supper, or perhaps you'd prefer tea?"

"Both," said Otho with genuine gratitude. He hastily washed up before digging into the supper. The food was excellent, though after days on the road, Otho doubted he would have turned down anything. The landlord and the servant disappeared discreetly as he tore into his meal.

He left an empty table to seek the common room of the inn. He was a bit nervous of all the tall Men in the room, loud and clumsy. He wondered how often his feet would be trod on this night by these blundering idiots. Carefully he picked his way around the crowd, sitting down at a table away from the fire, where the lamplight was low and shadows lay comfortably.

Barliman brought him a half-pint of ale and offered to introduce him to the company. Otho refused with a tight smile. "I'd rather not make a show of it, my good... man. I would sit here and enjoy the singing."

Barliman chuckled and nodded. The 'singing' was three of the townsfolk who had been in the tavern since before sunset, and their ale had gone well to their heads. They were bawling some awful tune while holding one another upright. It was bets to see if they would finish the song before one of them passed out.

Otho looked about the crowd. There were many men, most dressed as farmers would, mud and animal stains on their garments and smelling as though they should be housed in the stables. A few were garbed in travel clothes. These men sat alone about the place, eating or smoking and saying nothing. They were dark haired, scarred and weather-beaten. They had a roguish air about them. Otho slid his eyes over them quickly. They seemed to watch without looking, and Otho felt a strange suspicion that they knew his business in Bree. He shook his head and drank his ale. 'Just nerves,' he told himself.

Otho looked about for the individual that had described to him. There was a man, that river rat of a hobbit had said, who would do anything for a price—'a Man you'd never want to meet on a dark lonely road,' he'd said. But rather than avoiding this evil man, Otho had come seeking him. But none of the men here fit the description he had been given.

Otho stopped the servant next time he ran past. "Do you know a man named Ferny?" Otho asked in a low voice.

Nob nodded his head, spilling some of the beer from the mugs he was holding. He set the tankards down and mopped it up with the towel he had tucked in his belt. "Aye, master. It's a bit early for Mr Ferny. He usually comes in well after the supper crowd. I imagine he'll be along shortly, sir."

Otho slid a thin copper coin toward the hobbit. "See that he finds this table, lad, when he comes in."

"Aye, sir!"

'Waste of a good penny, but at least he wouldn't have to go and look for this beastly man,' thought Otho. He sipped at his ale, nursing the drink so that he would not have to pay for another as an excuse to linger.

The three drunken farmers were staggering out of the inn, escorted by some of the kinder-hearted patrons. Two more men arrived and ordered meals. One of the travelers stood and paced closer to the fire. Otho watched him. He was cowled, shadows where his face would be; he seemed quite tall. Otho willed that he go away. He made him feel very nervous.

Then the front door opened again with a blast of cold wind, and a large swarthy man appeared, accompanied by a shorter, hooded companion.

Nob greeted them and nodded his head toward Otho's table. The man sneered in his direction and seemed to ignore the invitation. He wandered about the room, talking to folks he knew, picking up a half-full tankard that someone had turned away from. His companion had fallen back into the dim light at the edge of the room.

Eventually he worked his way across the room to Otho's table. He sat down, the chair beneath him creaked dangerously. "Sitting at these little tables make me feel like a kid again," he said with a grunting laugh. In a softer voice, he murmured, "The little one told me you were looking for me."

"Aye, if you are Master Ferny." Otho was pleased. The man was strong, foul, and hungry-looking. "We should go somewhere private."

"That would attract more attention. What sort of trouble are you in?"

"I? No, you misunderstand. I am seeking... someone who might be willing do some... chores for me. Chores I cannot do myself. Someone who would like to weigh his pockets with some tradable currency." Otho murmured over his beer. He was used to speaking so that the ears of the crowd did not hear.

Ferny stared at him with an eyebrow. "Chores? In the Shire?"

"Yes. The matter of a... removal. Let's say I have an obstacle or two that I need... eliminated."

"How permanently?" Ferny asked bluntly.

Otho blinked. He had longed to learn that Bilbo might have died of old age. He had been waiting for that news for so long that it seemed all his life. But to actually say it... his stomach trembled. "Permanently," he whispered.

"Who?" Ferny drained his mug and signaled for another. Otho hoped he wouldn't be expected to buy the drinks as well.

"A Mr Baggins and his nephew." Otho answered, trying to keep the smile from his face. A show of eagerness on his part would only drive up the price.

Ferny said nothing. Nob came and filled their mugs. He smiled cheerfully, but his eyes were a little wide to see them sitting together with such dark faces. He quickly moved away to serve the party of dwarves that had just came in and were stamping their boots to shake off the rain.

"And how do you suggest a Man like me gets into the Shire and out without being noticed? You don't expect me to just waltz in and kill them, do you?"

Otho winced at the man's frankness. Ferny laughed at him and waved a hand. "I am not the one for you, Mr 'Brandybuck'. But I know someone who can do it. What he wants to know is how much are you willing to pay for this service?"

"I have thirty silver coins for the deed."

Ferny choked on his beer. "Thirty? That's a poor wage for such a tall favour! I would say a hundred would barely cover the costs."

"Ridiculous! Thirty silver is a fortune! I will offer forty, but only because my need is timely. It must be done soon."

Ferny shook his head. "No haggling. One hundred or no deal." He raised his mug as if signaling for a refill, but instead of Nob, the hooded figure that had come in with Ferny approached the table.

Otho covered his nose. A horrible smell assailed him, one that he had never sensed before. He looked into the hood of the short stranger, and his eyes grew round with surprise. He paled and leaned back as if to rise and flee.

Ferny caught his arm under the table. "My friend here could do it. He could do it within the week. In and out of the Shire like a shadow, so that the bounders won't even know he was there. But it'll cost you a hundred now, and another hundred after."

"O-ow-out of t-t-the question!" Otho stuttered. He tugged to get his arm back, but Ferny held him in an iron grip.

"Well, that is your prerogative, Mr Brandybuck. You needn't hire our services if you chose not to. But if you want us to be silent about our little chat, I suggest you hand over that forty silver, and we will pretend this conversation never took place."

Otho was trembling down to his toes. Without hesitation he drew out his pouch and counted the coins out under the table. He left them on the chair he had been sitting on. "Good night, gentlemen." he said woodenly.

He went to the bar and gave Barliman a pair of coins, picked up his still wet cloak and left the inn. Barliman stared at the silver in his hand. "I thought he was staying the night!"

Otho slogged through the mud to the stable. Bob had just finished toweling down his pony and feeding it. Otho demanded he saddle it again at once, and cast furtive glances toward the inn while he waited. As soon as Bob finished, he shoved another silver piece in the hobbit's hand and mounted hastily, riding swiftly toward the gate. At least it had stopped raining.

Otho kept the pony at a steady walk until he got through the gate. As soon as he was outside the fenced township, he urged the pony to a gallop and headed west. The Brandywine Bridge was closer than Sarn Ford, and he wished to get back into the Shire as quickly as possible. The eyes of the strange man had frightened him severely, and all he could see in the darkness was those yellow slitted eyes staring from every frightening shape in the night.

⌂

Bill Ferny and his companion planned to follow the hobbit and relieve him of the rest of his silver. They left by the South gate, leading their horses to pursue their prey. But when they had covered maybe a mile, their horses suddenly shied and refused to go further.

Bill whipped the horse with the reins. He could see the hoof marks of Otho's pony slowly disappearing in the soft mud of the road. "Ride on, you stupid beast!"

The horse reared and Bill fell off into the mud. His companion began to laugh, a grating horrible sound. "The rangers are here," he whispered in his ugly voice. "I can smell them."

"Curse those busybody, no-good tramps!" Bill picked himself up and shook his hands. He was coated with mud and soaking wet.

"They were listening in the inn, too. Let's get out of here." Bill began to slog down the road, followed by his companion.

They found Bill's pony standing idly down the road, standing on its own reins. "Stupid beast!" Bill mounted again, and they began to ride back to town. "A hundred silver pieces! What a loss!" moaned the Man.

"It would have been a fool's errand, even for two hundred," his companion grunted.

"I never intended to go through with it! Who would he complain to, if I took his money? Now, if he could get these Bagginses out of the Shire... well! I'd do them for thirty, no problem!" He laughed his nasty laugh. "For thirty silver pieces I would kill you, half-orc!"

Bill's 'friend' smiled, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth. "I have done as much... for a lot less." They rode back to Bree, and the darkness of the night about them was nothing compared to the blackness of their hearts.


	13. Ch 13 Coin of Destiny

**Chapter 12: Coin of Destiny  
**_in three parts_**  
**  
**I  
Philanthropy  
**  
Autumn in the Shire was sweet like honey dripping from the comb. Pollen and hayseed hung in the air, waiting to be wiped away by a timely rain shower. The fall feasts had begun, a steady string of holidays that kept most hobbits busy in the field during the week and at the table all weekend, which was a pleasant pastime, as any real hobbit would agree. Gammers were working at jarring vegetables and stewing fruit, making jam and preserves, preparing for the long months of winter when they would be eating on foresight. Wood was harvested for stoves and hearths, byre and barn filled to bursting with the generous bounty the summer had produced. There was so much that many of the hobbits were troubled by the excess... there were no places to store anymore foodstuffs. A catastrophe of abundance, indeed!

Bilbo went about the marketplaces, inquiring of farmers who might have extra stores they would sell. Some gardeners and husbandmen had visited him already; they knew who to go to when they had more victuals than they could use or distribute. Bilbo paid with good gold coin, when the farmers would accept it. Most of the stuff was donated, for though hobbits did like their extras, they were not as a rule greedy. And it was pretty widely known what Bilbo did with the extra provender. Master Baggins organized the supplying of poorer families with such things, to avoid waste and make sure that no old Gaffer or young hobbit-fry went cold or hungry through the winter. Bilbo was considered an eccentric and a bit cracked, but he was generous and kind-hearted to the poor.

But in this fine season, where bumper crops had been shown the breadth of the Shire, there was somehow less extra stores than Bilbo expected. He had to put forth an effort to find the quantity that he was accustomed to locating. He mentioned to Frodo off-handedly that he wondered; where had excess gone?

Frodo was constantly at his uncle's side in these days, making notes and arranging the acquiring of the supplies when the farmers could not deliver it themselves. He made sure that his uncle forgot no one on their list, and he visited each house to check that the goods had been delivered. His warm smile and bountiful delivery brought hope to many hobbits, and he blushed when they blessed him and gave all credits to Bilbo.

It had been a busy summer and the incident with Merry's foot and Otho's pony had faded in Frodo's mind, though he had not entirely forgotten it; other things of importance kept cropping up. There was Merry's birthday and Peregrin's after, the Lithe Fair at White Downs and Bonfire Night, and the late summer Mellon Feast, and then the early Apple Harvest Gathering. After that came the Thrashing Days and the Haying Parties, followed by the Bread Fair and Bake-off. There were pony races in early September, and then of course, the preparation for the Birthday Party, when Bilbo and Frodo celebrated their shared day.

The Birthday was still weeks away but Frodo did not feel as though he was getting anything done, although he was so busy that lately he had been rising before the Sun every day and falling into exhausted sleep late each night. It seemed months since he had had time for a long walk and a view of the stars. He wondered if the Elves had passed through the Shire yet, and if they missed him or even remembered him. He felt it impossible for him to forget a single face or name; each of the few elves he had met were so magnificent and ... well, magical, for lack of a better word. He longed to hear their singing again, and to see the starlight shimmering in their hair, tossed back in laughter. He began to daydream, and Bilbo had to call him to come and keep up as they walked about the market.

"Frodo! Are you awake, lad? Come, come! No time to dilly-dally or we'll never get the market done. Where is your head, my boy?"

"Sorry, Bilbo." Frodo grinned and hurried to his uncle's side. He rapidly made notes in a book as his uncle talked to the merchants.

One of the farmers from the Marshish was in the Hobbiton market that day, and when Frodo saw him, he gulped and hastily excused himself. Bilbo let him go; he knew what was disturbing his nephew.

"Farmer Maggot! Your goods look marvelous this year! I trust that Bamfurlong has enjoyed the bountiful summer that has blessed us all?"

"Aye, indeed it has." Maggot drawled around a stem of sweetgrass. He shook Bilbo's hand, saying, "I've a cart set aside for you, Mr Baggins. Farmer Sandhill down Scary sent some things as well. Should give you a leg up on your shortfall." The farmer waved away the coins that Bilbo offered. "No need, Master. We're doing fine and no complaints! See it goes well and don't spoil. I'd give away all my vegetables, if it means keeping gold from Sackville's pockets," he added with a mutter, moving them away from prying ears.

Bilbo cuffed Maggot on the arm. "So that's were its going to, eh? That was the rumour I had heard, but I couldn't account for it. What's he doing with it all, I wonder?"

Maggot shook his head. He wouldn't suppose, but he wasn't happy about it.

Bilbo nodded and changed the subject deftly. "But you and Mr Sandhill's generosity should bring us to what we need to fill the tallies… Frodo, how much have we got written down? Ah, he's gone off." Bilbo chuckled and made a note on his book.

"Still a little rascal, is he?" Farmer Maggot asked, though he was smiling around his grass stem.

Bilbo laughed, but he defended Frodo loyally, "We were all a little rambunctious when we were small-fry. I remember doing a few things I would rather not be recalled… and I remember a certain young Marshmonger who couldn't keep his hands out of…."

"Hey now! **Look** at the sun! Is that _really_ the time…" Farmer Maggot interrupted swiftly. Both hobbits laughed aloud. Maggot wiped laugh-tears his eyes and coughed, "In truth, I have heard he is a perfect gentlehobbit, Master Baggins, and much of that is to your credit. You have done a fine job raising him, if you don't mind my saying. Many other folks could benefit by following your example."

Bilbo smiled. "Frodo is a very good lad and in my opinion, the best hobbit in the Shire. He shall be Master of Bag End one day… one day soon, perhaps." Bilbo became thoughtful as he added this.

Farmer Maggot looked at him sharply then glanced around to see if anyone was listening. "You look as well as ever, Bilbo, so I am figuring that you are not referring to any gloomy endings. Are you considering retirement at last?"

"Quite the contrary!" Bilbo said, "I am thinking about going on another Adventure. Truly, I have only stayed as long as I have for Frodo. He doesn't really need a guardian anymore, but I enjoy his company. I can wait a few years before I set off again. What with things as they are, I want to leave him secure and comfortable."

Maggot's eyes were piercing. He clapped Bilbo on the back, and said before taking his leave, "It will be a hard parting for all when that day comes. You may find it more difficult than last time: leaving suddenly. You may end up with two shadows."

Bilbo had laughed lightly at the time but the thought returned later to worry him, Maggot's shrewd comment echoed in his head. Bilbo intended for Frodo was to inherit Bag End and take his place; it would not do for him to come along with Bilbo! And yet, the idea was not as disturbing as it should have been. Bilbo found himself enjoying the thought of tramping about the Wild with his nephew. No, it might not be such a bad thing, indeed.

⌂

On the way home in the violet gloaming, Frodo was trudging up the hill behind Bilbo, lugging a bushel-basket of groceries. He paused at the gate and hefted the bundle to his shoulder, but stood peering at the stars peeking through the hazy veil of the sky. "'I miss the velvet night, brought to sweet music with the chords of an Elven song'," he sighed, moved to poetry suddenly. Bilbo held the gate open and smiled at him.

"So that is where your mind has been lately! Dreaming of Elves? I can't say I am not feeling much the same. What say you we stash all this in the pantry and sort it out tomorrow? We could throw together a few morsels and hike out to the Piney Knoll… maybe we will see some elves. It is shaping up for a good night for it!"

"Oh, Bilbo! I would like nothing better! Let's hurry!" Frodo helped his uncle put away the stores and he grabbed some cheese, bread and fruit, shoving them in a sack while Bilbo gathered other supplies. They met at the front door and helped one another don cloak and hood, and catching up their walking sticks, slipped together into the night.

They fell into their measured walk; a long-gaited, rolling stroll that devoured the miles swiftly. It took them down the Hill and over the mill bridge, past the Green Dragon noisy with music and laughter, yellow light spilling like pollen across the darkened road. They heeded not this lure of cheer, but headed for the quiet hills, where fairer music could be found and light purer and brighter than mortal fire.

When their figures had been swallowed up entirely by the evening, a patch of darkness that lurked beneath the bridge near the mill took shape into two shadowy lumps, creeping up the Hill through garden and hedge, coming secretly to the rear entrance to Bag End garden.

**II****  
Amateur Burglars**

The two shadowy figures crept stealthfully up the Hill, silent as the moonshine on the grass. They came to the rear entrance of Bag End, pausing to listen carefully.

"I was starting to think they would never leave the hole again, Ted!" complained one of them, as the other slipped the latch and opened the gate.

"Shh! Lower your voice, Sancho! The neighbours up here are as nosy as all the Shire!" he hissed, shoving the other hobbit through the gate and closing it quickly.

"Don't use my name, then, if you think they're listening!" Sancho murmured gruffly, piqued at himself but in no mood to apologize. They had been waiting beneath the mill bridge for Bilbo and Frodo to go out of the hole of an evening for nigh half the summer. Sancho was impatient to find some of the gold that Ted had flaunted. A big shiny coin he had found, he said, buried in the garden right here at Bag End!

"How d'you know there'll be more?" he had asked, greed in his eyes. The wealth of Bilbo Baggins was legend, and it was well rumoured that he had got his money in foreign parts, as well as whispered that it was ill-gained. He told stories of dragons and mountains and elves, but those were stories for children. Sancho Proudfoot did not consider himself a child, so he discounted most of what he had heard. But the tales about treasure stuck in his mind, and the coin that Ted flashed proved to him that at least part of the legend was true.

"There's more and plenty where this came from," Ted had answered evasively. He knew that Mr Sackville-Baggins would not approve, but he had watched and reported and not enough was being done, in his eyes. He was annoyed that his father seemed so mellow toward the Bagginses of the Hill, still willing to discuss their strangeness but refusing flatly to speak to Mr Sackville-Baggins about anything other than mill business.

It had surprised Ted to learn that Otho Sackville-Baggins owned an interest in the mill, and this became a great source of tension between his father and Otho. Ted had irrationally decided that it was Frodo's fault, adding it to the list of grievances that he would one day call on Frodo to account.

They hurried up the path to the garden behind Bag End, taking care to stay low and make no sound. Ted grabbed Sancho and threw him to the ground behind a rosebush as Gaffer Gamgee suddenly appeared, closing and locking the rear door of Bag End. That Bilbo had trusted him with a spare key was one of the Gaffer chief sources of pride, and a secret he guarded closely.

He slipped it into his pocket and patted it securely, then made his way around the garden and left by the rear gate, passing within inches of the delinquent hobbits' hiding place.

When he was gone, Ted uttered a soft curse. He sprang up and ran to the door, which was firmly locked. He hurried around to the darkened front door, finding it equally secure.

"What are you about, Ted," whispered Sancho. Digging up buried treasure was no trespass to him, but he did not know that Ted had intended to actually go inside Bag End! That was a crime! "Ho, we shall get into trouble if we are caught!"

"I was just making sure," Ted said lamely. "Let's go back to the garden. I'll show you where I found the gold." Ted's mind was flying. He had been sure that Bag End would not be locked. Now he had to find a way to satisfy his confederate, the not-very-smart Sancho, so that he would be loyal to him and still willing to participate in future escapades.

He dug in his pocket for the coin, but found he could not discard it. It was the only one he had left of the several that Otho had rewarded him with, each time he brought his news to him. Others he had squandered, buying rounds of ale at the Ivy Bush, claiming his father had increased his allowance. He had become quite popular with the younger hobbits who frequented that tavern, and this was how he had managed to snare Odo Proudfoot's son to attempt burglary.

"Dig here," Ted said, choosing a spot at random. "I am sure this is where I found it." He hoped that after a few moments of effort, Sancho might get tired of looking and agree to leave. In the last resort, he planned to drop the coin and let Sancho find it.

Sancho fell to his knees and began to eagerly shovel aside the soft earth with his hands. He dug like a dog, scattering vegetables and plants, greed taking hold of his mind.

Ted glances around uneasily. He had a feeling suddenly that they were not alone. He grabbed Sancho's tunic, saying "Let's go! Someone's going to come!"

The young hobbit ignored him. He was digging and felt he was near the prize. When Ted tugged at his arm, he shook him off and hissed, "I am almost to the treasure… I know it! Just a few more moments and … _ye-Ouch!_" Sancho leapt up, knocking Ted backward into the rosebush. There was a thorn stuck in Sancho's cheek as long as a darning needle. He grasped it and pulled it out. "Wha'ss thiss?" he slurred. His face had gone numb were the barb had struck. He kneaded his face with his dirty hands, leaving mud smeared there from his excavations.

Ted was cursing loud, forgetful of secrecy. The rosebush's thorns tore into his clothes and skin, leaving his left arm and leg tingly and unresponsive. He could barely lift himself up, and had trouble standing.

"Sancho! You idiot! Help me get out of here!" He limped toward the gate, dragging Sancho behind.

Two more thorns pierced the seat of Sancho's trousers. He yelped again and ran, now towing Ted who clung to his jacket. They stumbled out of the garden and scrambled gracelessly over the gate, landing hard. Lights along Bagshot Row were being lit, and folks were coming out of hole and house to investigate the shouting. They dodged behind the hedges and crawled away.

The Gaffer came running with Sam right behind, wielding an iron frying pan he had snatched off the table in #3 Bagshot Row. They found the digging in the garden, potato plants scattered and roots tossed about, but they saw no one.

"What is it, Dad?" asked Sam, frowning down at the mutilated plants. "Badgers?"

"Nay, Sammie, 'tis a varmint of another nature what leaves diggin's like this. Back to the hole now, boy. I'll let Mr Baggins know about this tomorrow. He and Mr Frodo have gone out, and I think it might be wise if I stay an' watch the house while they're away."

"Aye, sir. I'll bring you some supper when Daisy has it finished." Sam began to walk away, but he stopped and picked up something that caught his eye, shining in the overturned soil. A gold coin, it was! Sam showed it obediently to his gaffer.

"Mr Bilbo most likely dropped it, or maybe Mr Frodo. I will leave it for them on the mantle. Go'wan back home now, lad, and keep yer eyes skinned. Those varmints are most likely still about." He paused and stared at the garden for a moment.

Sam noticed his regard. "What is it, Gaffer, sir?"

The Gaffer shook his head. "Nothin', Go'wan home now, Sam, and don't worry about bringin' me no supper. I want you to stay home an' look after your sisters. Tell Halfast what's happened up here, but not the girls. I don't want them to be worriting."

Sam obeyed. The Gaffer took another good look around the garden. Daddy Two-foot hailed him from the hedge.

"What's these goings on, Ham? I heard shoutin', I did! Is Mr Baggins all right?"

"Mr Baggins is away from his hole tonight, Dad. Been some vandals messing in the garden. They're gone off, now, but I'd watch my doors tonight if I were you. Maybe some more shenanigans before sunlight. "

"I'll pass the word! Mind yourself, Gamgee!" Daddy Two-foot hurried off to spread the word down the Hill and up the Row.

The Gaffer let himself inside Bag End with his key. He lit the lamp in the kitchen and examined the coin his son had found. "Now, isn't that a strange thing!" he said, turning it round in his thick fingers.

⌂

In the garden, Firtle shook his limbs, trying to fluff out his foliage that Ted had flattened when he had fallen on him. His lovely flowers were all squashed and he had berry-juice smeared across his face like warpaint. But he laughed merrily and said in his soft child's voice, "Stint! Done it we have! Praised be thy skillful bow-shots! Driven away the shadowfolk we have!"

Stint stepped out from behind a row of beans, tilting back the iron kettle he had donned as a helmet. He raised his bow and saluted Firtle. "None shall threaten the home of our _aewn_! Did you see them running! Ha!" The woodsprites hopped around on the disturbed earth, dancing in their excitement and triumph. They had never had this much fun when they dwelled in the Grove!

**III****  
Coin of Thought**

Bilbo and Frodo were blissfully unaware of the battle raging behind Bag End. They were already far away. Reaching the woods swiftly in their eagerness they had walked but a few paces into the dark curtain of the trees when music and light had fallen about them like rain from a sudden cloud.

The Elves welcomed them with laughter, sitting them down among them and filling their hands with food and drink, so that they forgot their hastily packed supper. Soon they were laughing and singing along merrily with their hosts.

Frodo's eyes shone in the light of the stars and the elf-lamps, and his voice acquired a rich rippling quality as he spoke. The Elves could not get enough of his charming manner. They would give him things to hear him say 'thank you', and ask him questions merely to listen to him speak his answers.

They demanded a song from him. During his last visit he had mentioned that he was trying to compose something for them. Though seeming long ago to Frodo, it was but a moment passing to the Elves, and they remembered his promise to complete it. Now they called for it.

Frodo stood and bowed, blushing with pleasure, and raised his voice in this simple ballad:

He finished the song. The Elves gazed at him in silence, and some had tears in their shining eyes.

"I... I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, horrified that he had made them weep. "I did not mean to make anyone sad!"

"No, Frodo Baggins. Sadness is owned by the Elves; it is not yours to make or give," answered one Elf. His name was Tirhen, and he bowed to Frodo and brushed away the hobbit's tears with cool, soft fingers. "In our hearts we Elves harbour a great well of sorrow and it is good to let it spill occasionally, lest it fill us and overflow in bitterness. Your words are sweet and wounding, and we weep with delight at hearing them. Come! sing it again, little master! We shall make music to buoy it up, so that Elbereth might hear your tribute more easily!"

Bilbo sat back and watched his nephew with the Elves, smoking his pipe and smiling. The boy did seem more in his element among the Fair Folk, less alien and remote than with his own people. The idea of leaving came to the front of Bilbo's thoughts again and a pang of regret filled him that Frodo must remain behind. For all of his planning, Bilbo wanted to take him along, walk about the Wild with him and share all the things that were yet to be discovered.

Bilbo found he was not alone anymore; Tirhen had joined him beneath his tree. The Elf had picked up his tobacco pouch and sniffed it. His eyes touched upon Bilbo's face, and he wore a knowing smile. "You miss him already, Bilbo Baggins, and you have not yet even set out on your journey. Tell me; are you really going to leave? You have made noises of it for many seasons."

"Oh, I intend to, my dear Tirhen," said Bilbo, offering his pipe to the elf, who smilingly refused. "Very soon! I have already begun to set things up. But you are right; less sweet will such Adventuring seem, without his eyes to see them through." Bilbo sighed. "He is everything good in the Shire, my Frodo. I will travel easier and rest better knowing he is here safe and secure."

Tirhen's smile faded, and he held Bilbo in his sad gaze. "Secure for now, Bilbo, but not for ever. The Shadows are spreading. Maybe they will fall on this fair land, too. The Elves fear it. Dunedain patrol this land, and they are not idle."

Bilbo frowned and sat for a while, watching the elves pull Frodo in a circle dance. He was laughing, his sadness and sorrow forgotten in this moment. Bilbo knew how lonely the lad was, and how hard it was for him to 'fit in' with his eccentric old uncle around. "He will settle down after I go. A proper hobbit he shall become then, I am sure. The bounders will protect him. I shall not be worried."

"How will you find the strength to leave him behind?" asked Tirhen.

"I will find it! I must! Bag End needs a Baggins in it and he is my heir. And he loves the Shire, really. He may dote on his poor old uncle and read Elven histories, but the Shire is his whole world."

"As it was once yours?" Tirhen asked slyly.

Bilbo glanced at him with mock irritation. "Speaking of travel," he said, doggedly returning to his subject and intent, "Will you deliver my message to Lord Elrond?"

"I will. Though I cannot speak for my lord, I would dare to guess that he will welcome your presence, at least as long as you don't bring thirteen Dwarves with you!"

Bilbo laughed. The dancers were now forming a long chain behind Frodo, who was leading them in a hobbit-fry game called 'dragon-snap'. They turned and twisted back upon themselves, writhing over the grass as fast as the hobbit could lead them, making the last elf in line have to cling to the hand of his friend to keep from being snapped off. The Elves loved it, and soon all were joining the chain.

Tirhen said no more of traveling or the future, but rose to his feet as the line of dancers came snaking up to them. He pulled Bilbo up and joined them to the chain. Bilbo laughed and protested, but he danced just as vigorously as his nephew did and the Elves spun them round and round under the stars.

⌂

When the stars were high and beginning to descend, the Elves bade farewell to the hobbits. They had to be on their way eastward, they said, trying to catch up with the fading summer. Tirhen bowed to the hobbits and the Elves all faded into the trees, their lamps lost in the trees and the sound of their singing fading. Bilbo and Frodo were both tired, but still alert and full of joy. The walked back to Bag End at a leisurely pace, as if reluctant to rejoin the mundane world. The sun was just climbing above the trees as they shuffled up the Hill.

The Gaffer opened the door for them, to Bilbo's alarm. "Gaffer Gamgee! What are you doing here? You're up early, even for yourself!" Bilbo said.

"There's been a spot of mischief while you and Mr Frodo have been out, Master Baggins. But all is a'right now." The Gaffer helped him shed his cloak. Frodo took both garments and hung them up.

"What's happened, Mr Gamgee, sir?" Frodo asked, concern creasing his brow.

"Are Belle and the children all right?" asked Bilbo quickly. Gaffer Gamgee could be most reticent with details.

"Yes, sir! Right as rain, they are. But after you went off last night, some varmints got to digging in the garden, and ruin't a fair patch, I'm afraid."

"Is that all?" Bilbo was not impressed. "And you were afraid they'd come into the house and look for more taters in my cellar? I doubt a badger would find their way in through the walls, though I appreciate your vigilance, Gaffer."

The Gaffer didn't laugh. "Not the four-legged kind of varmint, Mr Baggins. I'm a-feared it were burglars!"

Frodo was fetching tea from the kitchen where the Gaffer had kept a kettle hot, anticipating their return. If he had been drowsy from his night's cavorting, he was wide awake now. "Burglars? In Hobbiton? Outrageous!"

"I know!" said the Gaffer firmly. "I had Smallburrow and his lad up here first thing, but they found no hint of who it were. But I found this, sir, or rather my Sammie found it, last night after we spooked 'em away." He held out the coin that Sam had found by its shine beneath the stars, a thick coin of gold. "I thought maybe you or Master Frodo might have dropped it, but I got to lookin' at it, and I think maybe it is something else." Bilbo examined the coin.

It was different from the coins that the Dwarves minted for him, when they sent him portions of his treasure every so often. Handsome coins they made, with a stylized dragon on one side and a pipe with a twist of smoke wreathing up on the other. This one did not have those symbols on it, but was crudely hammered and stamped with what appeared to be a handprint. On the other side it bore the design of a wheel.

Bilbo handed it to Frodo. "Have you ever seen its like, my lad?"

Frodo looked at the coin closely. It looked thicker than the coins that Bilbo received, but it felt lighter. Frodo took a nail-knife from his belt and scratched the coin on its edge. Beneath a thin layer of gold there was a dull grey metal, soft and poorly smelted.

"It's not gold all through!" Frodo announced.

Bilbo took the coin back and flaked away some more of the gold-covering. "How do you like that? Coated with gold but filled with lead! Not worth a quarter of what one of the Dwarven coins, this! And you found it in the garden, you say? Maybe one of the culprits dropped it in their haste."

"Could be a prank, uncle," suggested Frodo. "Some young hobbit having one on his mates about the buried treasure of Bag End!"

"Yes, but this coin is not child's play." Bilbo frowned and weighed the coin in his hand. "I'd hate to think of these tin coins going to the hands of decent hobbits who might not know better."

"I can take it down to the Shirriff's office for you, Mr Bilbo, if you like. We could round up any like it; may be t'will tell us who dropped it, if we find more." The Gaffer took the kettle from Frodo, who was yawning and nearly spilled the hot liquid. "You two have been up all night, by the looks of you."

"I will take care of it, Gaffer," said Bilbo. He slipped the coin in his waistcoat pocket. "Say nothing more about it for now, if you please. I would rather news of this wasn't spread just yet. Don't worry; I'll see that no more of these get spread round." The Gaffer nodded, touched his forelock to Bilbo and Frodo and left the smial by the kitchen door.

"Frodo, set that cup down before you scald yourself and go and get some sleep. I'll see that Sam stays away from your window with his pottering so you can get some rest."

"What about you, uncle?" Frodo asked. His eyes were droopy, but he wore a worried look.

"I'll be fine! Back before you know it and I'll have a nap before lunch. You go on now, lad. Nothing to worry about." Bilbo slipped his hand in his pocket and closed it tight.

Frodo nodded and went to his room, but he could not stop worrying. He could tell his uncle Bilbo was concerned about things when he dug into his pockets like that. He dozed fitfully and dreamed of dragons with gold coins for eyes. He woke several times, finally wrapping himself in a blanket and going into the parlour to wait for Bilbo. The open window let in a soft breeze that carried a sweet herb smell and a murmuring like tiny voices seemed to sing a lullaby that eased his mind. He sank into a deep peaceful sleep that even Sam's hedge clipping did not disturb.

⌂

Otho sat in his booth in the Sack and Grain and brooded. Nothing was going right. He had failed time and again to throw one over on Bilbo and he had nothing to show for his losses. Now Lobelia was angry at him for spending so much time away and leaving her alone with their son. He sought his refuge in the Inn and tried to think of something to try next.

He heard the door open, but the bartender did not give up his warning, so Otho relaxed. He raised his mug and drained it, and when he lowered it, he saw Bilbo Baggins sitting across the table from him, as if he had magically appeared.

Otho dropped his mug. "B…Bilbo! What are you… I mean, what a delightful surprise!"

"I doubt it," said Bilbo pleasantly. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the scarred coin, flipping it toward Otho. The hobbit caught it deftly.

"I don't know what you've been about, Otho, and I am sure I don't want details that would surely spoil my lunch. Just listen to me and listen well: If I see another coin like that in the Shire, I will tell everyone who is spreading them. I know it is yours, so don't deny it! I want you to round up all that you have used and exchange them for good fair coin or barter, before anyone knows they've been cheated. And I want you to keep your son away from my hill, my home, and my heir.

"And do you want to know why you are going to do these things?" Bilbo did not wait for an answer. He said to Otho's face, which had gone very red, "You are going to do these things because of you don't, I shall bring up a little matter of Sackville family history that I believe you would just as soon keep private. It wouldn't do to let everyone know your relationship to a certain hobbit that was shown the boundaries some years ago. Folk might think you were less than trustworthy, should that get about, eh? Might be bad for business."

Otho's face turned from red to pasty white. "You wouldn't dare…"

Bilbo's stare was even and cold. "You don't know me very well if you think that I will idly stand by while my family is harassed. I don't want you or any Sackville-Baggins to set one foot on the Hill without an engraved invitation… and Frodo is 'out-of-bounds'! Don't cross me again, Otho! If you hurt him, I swear you'll never see me coming."

Bilbo rose and gave Otho a flip of a hand in salute. He left the tavern with a lilt in his step and whistled all the way back to Hobbiton. When he got home, Frodo was in the parlour, asleep on the settee. He roused his nephew and told him what he had done.

"The hobbit who was exiled... the one you told me about before... he was a Sackville?" Frodo was awed and impressed. "There is no history of him in the family ledgers!"

"Exactly, my boy. But I am the one who keeps the ledgers, and I have records that have been removed from the leaves of the Family Books." Bilbo sighed and rubbed his face. "I wouldn't want to do such a thing as bring it up in public, for it would harm the Baggins' name as much as the Sackville's, but if he leaves me no choice, I shall do it!"

That his uncle would do such things to protect him made Frodo feel very loved and ever more loyal toward Bilbo, if it were possible for him to feel these things more that he had before. "How did you know it was Otho behind it all, uncle?" asked Frodo with admiration in his eyes. Bilbo was so incredibly clever!

"Easy, my lad! The coin was imprinted with a hand and a wheel. Otho owns part of the mill, and he always has his hands where they don't belong!" They laughed together. Bilbo smiled and tousled Frodo's hair. "In truth, I have seen the coins before, at the market where Otho had bought up the extra produce and grains. I don't know what he's doing with it, but I imagine that this coin was what he was paid by whomever he sold the goods to."

"I wonder who that would be," Frodo asked, yawning again. He still hadn't caught up his sleep, and all this intrigue and mystery was beginning to seem like another tale.

"I imagine we will find out by and by, my lad. Now off to bed with you! I am so tired I shall sleep for a week's worth of Sundays! But don't you dare forget to wake me for dinner!"


	14. Ch 14 Blackberry Hills

**  
Chapter 13, Blackberry Hills  
**_in four parts_

**I  
To Adventure or Not to Adventure**

"Are you sure you don't want another piece of pie, Frodo-dear? You've only had two, and my Folco can eat three in one sitting!"

"Honestly Mrs Boffin, if I took another bite, all my buttons would burst off! Everything is so delicious!" Frodo patted his round stomach. "I shall have to have my trousers let out at the waist soon!"

Ivy flushed with delight, and began to gather the remains of the meal and tidy up her kitchen.

She and all the mothers of Frodo's friends always appeared to be obsessed with the quantity of food the young hobbit could eat. They seemed to think that Bilbo Baggins the Bachelor was incapable of feeding a young hobbit, and were worried that Frodo was in danger of wasting away from hunger, in spite of the fact that Frodo was a well-grown hobbit, a few inches taller than the average and measurably robust.

Mrs Boffin was, at least, polite about things. Mrs Bolger- Fatty's mother- fussed and fanned and fainted about him when he would come to tea with Fredegar. She would cook for a day before an announced visit, and Frodo had to work hard to eat all the things she prepared. If he couldn't, she would claim he was ill and fret and worry until it nearly drove her husband and son mad. It was a good thing she was such an excellent cook. Frodo would eat nothing but bread and honey for a day or two before a visit, and after he would need no victuals for another two days at least! Frodo was glad that Folco's mother was more diplomatic.

Folco smiled at Frodo across the table. He and Frodo had been friends since Frodo had moved to Hobbiton. The younger hobbit had found the newcomer from Buckland exotic and interesting, and had ever taken his side against the other hobbit-fry who would sometimes find flinging unkind words at the odd fellow Frodo entertaining.

Frodo did not listen to such teasing and he did not forget Folco's loyalty. Now they would walk the Shire paths together near Hobbiton, go fishing together on fine days, and share other pleasant past times. Frodo sometimes talked about the distant lands and strange folk that his uncle had told him about, but Folco did not go much for such things. He preferred un-Adventures—but in spite of this, Frodo found him a good companion.

When Bilbo had announced that he was going to be away for a few days on some business, Frodo had suggested he might pay a visit to Folco during his uncle's absence. Bilbo thought it a capitol idea, knowing how lonely Frodo got when he was left alone in the huge empty smial on the Hill. And with him in Ivy Boffin's care, Bilbo needn't worry about Frodo having regular meals or walking about town or country alone.

Mrs Ivy Boffin was a very good cook, and she baked a fine pie, that was for sure. Frodo had gallantly volunteered to help pick wild berries for her when she mentioned she could use some. She would stew them and use them to make jams, jellies, and more pies. Of course, she had to feed Frodo and Folco up first, so they wouldn't eat all the berries they picked. The young hobbits stood up from the table with difficulty and accepted their baskets from her, then hurried out the door into the warm sunshine.

"We'll be back soon, mum," Folco called out, and he and Frodo strode off toward the hills, heading past the harrowed fields to the unclaimed lands that were covered with thickets of wind-sown fruit and unplanned orchards.

The summer had ripened the gooseberries and blueberries until they hung in heavy clusters on vines and branches. Strawberries were so thick under the leaves that the ground appeared spotted with patches of blood; mulberry trees wept their purple tears with every breeze. They could have filled their baskets to overflowing within steps of the road, but Mrs Boffin had made a special request today. She wanted blackberries, as ripe and large as they could find—no ground pickings, thank you!—for the preparation of the Best Wildberry Pie competition at the Bywater Fair, only a few days hence. So Frodo and Folco were on a quest.

"Everything is an Adventure to you, Frodo," Folco had said. When Mrs Boffin had suggested that they gather the fruit for her, Frodo had made such a show of accepting the mission, with a bow and a kiss on her hand, that the matron had blushed like a hobbit-lass.

"There's nothing wrong with a little Adventure, Folco. What could happen, gathering berries five miles from Hobbiton? We might as well make the afternoon fun!"

They made a contest: to gather the most berries in the time it took for them to circle the blackberry bushes. Each berry had to be ripe and as large as their thumbs. Every green berry was a point against.

They split up. Though they were picking the same vast patch of berries, the bushes were so thick that they lost sight of each other. Frodo went left and Folco right, and their game would end when they met on the other side of the bushes with full baskets.

Frodo carefully waded into the bushes, wary of the thick thorns that sprouted as liberally as the berries they were meant to protect. He knew the trick of avoiding the snaring bristles, and he palmed a handful of fruit and sorted it carefully, eating the berries that were too small. He wished now that he had passed on that second piece of pie!

The berries were sweet and soon his fingers were blue-purple from the soft, ripe berries. The ground was squishy under his feet, and juice from the ground-fallen berries welled between his toes in a tickly kind of feeling. He stepped over a stretching branch and found another thick growth of berries. His basket would be full in no time.

Frodo laughed as he listened to Folco yelp every time he pricked himself on the thorns. Frodo yelled advice helpfully. "Lift the branch and pick on the bend! Move your hands in the same direction of the thorns!"

"I—ouch! I am! The thorns are growin' backwards!" Folco barked. "My basket is already half full! I am going to beat you, Frodo Baggins!"

"Not if you keep eating them, Folco Boffin!" Frodo retorted merrily. He was sure that the blackberries were staining his own lips as well. They were just too sweet! Especially the large ones he was supposed to be saving.

They met finally on the other side of the bushes, both laughing at the other who was spotted and stained with berry juice. Folco had torn his tunic in three places and his trews as well. Frodo was unmussed except for stains on his hands, feet, and face. In his hair there were a few leaves and a spiderweb that had caught in his dark curls.

They eyed one another's baskets critically, then decided that it was a tie. Both young hobbits were full up with berries and only idly ate one or two more as they walked back to the Boffin house. Mrs Boffin met them at the door and relieved them of their baskets, forbidding them to step inside on her rugs until they had washed up. They ran to the water pump and looked at the trough full of chilly well-water, then glanced down the slope of the hill toward the inviting waters of the Pool. Frodo grabbed Folco and tried to hold him and still run past, to beat him to the swimming hole. Folco giggled and whipped past Frodo at a run, his smaller form a speedier package. They flung off their clothes as they ran and dove into the sun-warm water.

Their splashing and laughter attracted the attention of some other children playing across the small pond. They were skipping stones, and the ripples of Frodo and Folco's sporting was unsettling the surface of the water.

Rather than complain, most of the children joined them swimming. Frodo was delighted to see Samwise Gamgee, and he recognized Jolly, Nick, and Nibs Cotton. To his joy he saw that they had their sister Rose with them.

Folco gasped and sank into the water, blushing bright red. They were naked except for their linen shorts in the water. Frodo laughed at him and splashed his face.

"Silly Folco! It's only Rosie! Hi! Sam! Come in for a swim!"

"I don't think so, Mr Frodo," Sam called back. Frodo recalled then that the young Gamgee did not swim.

"You'll never learn unless you try," Frodo said, treading water in the center of the pool. Folco was splashing around, showing off. Frodo had taught him to swim, but he was not as graceful in the water as his mentor. The Hobbiton children maintained that Frodo was part fish, owing to his Brandybuck blood. "If Folco can do it, you can."

"I'll never need to learn, if I don't fall into a pool or river," Sam retorted. Nick and Jolly had no such reluctance. They grabbed their younger brother and tossed him giggling into the water, then plunged in after him, shouting and splashing each other. Sam settled down on the bank of the pool and watched as the others sported in the water. Rosie gathered her skirts to her knees and waded in the shallows.

"Foooool-co!" came the call—too soon, it seemed. Mrs Boffin hallooed them from her back gate. "Bring yourselves, young Boffin and Baggins! It's tea-time!"

Frodo swam like an otter to the pool edge, then stepped out onto the grass. Rosie laughed at Folco who lingered in the water, too embarrassed to come out in front of a lady. She turned her back politely so he could scramble out and hastily dress. Frodo smiled at her but said nothing. She gave him a sunny smile back, waving her fingers at him as he turned away, buttoning his shirt.

Quite unexpectedly, Frodo felt a stab of pain on his neck. He supposed it was a thorn from the blackberry bushes, and he raised a hand to pull out the barb. A small black spider scampered across his fingers and dropped into the grass. Frodo watched it hasten away in surprise, failing to suppress a shudder as he felt phantom hairy legs walking across his skin.

"What's wrong, Mr Frodo?" Sam asked. Frodo pointed to the spider, and then raised his hand to rub his neck. It was sore, and there was a swelling lump under his collar.

"Did it bite you, sir?" Sam was very concerned.

"I think so, Sam. I have a pain here," Frodo said, then a wave of dizziness tipped him, and he clutched at Sam's arm. He was suddenly in excruciating pain. "Sam..." Frodo stumbled and almost fell.

Sam ducked under Frodo's arm and began hauling him toward the house. Frodo was grateful; he felt as though he could barely walk. What was wrong? It had only been a tiny, black...

⌂

'A widower-spider, I think it was, ma'am. My Gaffer says they are terrible poisonous! Stung him on the neck, it did!"

They were at the Boffin's door, and Frodo had no memory of walking that far. Folco and Sam were both carrying him with his arms across their necks.

"Should we call a doctor?" Ivy was distressed. She instructed them to set Frodo down on the settee in the parlour. Frodo's face was pale and he was perspiring lightly. The pain was going away, but he still felt dizzy and ill. His hands felt odd. It was as if they were further away than they should be. Frodo touched his own face as if using a stranger's hand. His fingers were shaking.

"Aye, ma'am, I think we should, and I'll go and get Mr Bilbo and the Gaffer."

"Mr Bilbo is away, Sam," said Folco in a small voice. He looked at Frodo with a worried face. "That's why Frodo is staying with me for a few days. His uncle's gone from the Hill on business."

"My Gaffer might know what to do, ma'am," Sam said to Mrs Boffin as she twisted the hem of her apron in worry. "We have all manner of little vermin in the garden. Maybe..."

"Off with you, then, young Gamgee, and come back with him quick!" Ivy said. "Folco, run and get Doc Halebody straight away!" The two young hobbits dashed off.

Not knowing what else to do, Ivy wrapped Frodo in a blanket and dried his hair, still wet from swimming. He was shivering and his eyes seemed bright as if with fever. She held him and sang softly, more to comfort herself than for any other reason.

"Mum?" Frodo called softly. His eyes were closed, long lashes laying wetly against his pale cheeks.

"It's all right, Frodo. Ivy's here," Ivy said gently.

Frodo opened his eyes slowly. "Mum... where have you been?"

Ivy wasn't sure what to say. She was aware of what had happened to Frodo's mother and father... everyone who cared about the young hobbit knew they had drowned when he was a twelve-year old lad. "Frodo, I'm not..." she began to say, but Frodo whimpered and snuggled against her.

"Mum, I missed you! Don't go away again, please?"

His tears were more than she could bear. Trying not to weep herself, she cradled him and said, "I will always be here for you, Frodo dear." That much was true, and she knew it in her heart.

Frodo did not call out again. He swooned and lay in her arms. When Doc Halebody arrived, breathless with Folco pushing him from behind, he found her weeping over the lad.

"There, there, Mrs Boffin! Now, let me see this bite... ah, yes. Just what your son told me. A small black spider? Now what are these tears for? The lad will be fine in a little while. It is just a reaction to the spider's venom. I have just the thing to fix him up. Folco lad," the doctor leaned down toward the bewildered hobbit, "Go and make your mother a nice cup of tea. And bring a cup of strained milk with you when you come back."

Doc Halebody took the unconscious Frodo from Ivy's reluctant hands. He carefully examined the lad's throat, fingers, and feet. He lifted each eyelid and gently looked at the inside of Frodo's lips and at his tongue. "Ivy, please fetch me another blanket, would you?" When she left he room, he removed Frodo's clothes and made sure there were no other bites or wounds on the lad. Frodo muttered incoherently. His eyes opened briefly and closed again slowly. The doctor wrapped him back in the blanket and in the additional one Ivy brought him. Folco arrived carrying two cups with excessive care.

Doc Halebody took the milk and measured into it a clear liquid from a small bottle he took from his bag. He stirred the cup and raised Frodo's head, setting the cup to his lips. "Drink, lad. Go on now, drink it down."

Frodo sipped and coughed, making a face. "Yes, I know, Frodo. It doesn't taste as good as one of Mrs Boffin's pies, but it is good for you. Drink it down now." The doctor's voice was soothing and gentle. Frodo grimaced but sipped at the milk until it was gone.

"Folco, bring me a bucket from the garden, would you lad?" Doc Halebody kept his eyes on Frodo's face. Folco obeyed at once, and Doc was ready with a towel and the bucket when his medicine began to do its work.

Frodo never felt so wretched in his life. Suddenly he could not keep his stomach; the milk and medicine, as well as his lunch, made a hasty re-appearance. Ashamed, he stammered an apology.

"No, Frodo, don't be sorry," Doc Halebody said. "It's the medicine. I have to get that poison out of your system. This is the quickest and easiest way. I'll give you some time, and then we need to do it again."

"Oh, no, doctor..." Frodo wiped tears from his face. "This is horrible!"

"Not as horrible as not getting the poison out, lad. Do you want to be sick for a fortnight? Who is the doctor, now?"

"No, sir. You are, sir." Frodo said. His face was whiter than the pillow Ivy set behind his head. He swallowed convulsively. He felt miserable.

Sam and the Gaffer arrived during Frodo's second purging. The Gaffer nodded his approval and had a few quiet words with the doctor, then gathered Sam and left. Sam clearly would have preferred to stay and help, but the Gaffer was firm. "Go'wan now over to the Cotton's, and let them know the young master is going to be all right. Lily and Rose'll be worriting." The Gaffer laid a callused hand gently on his son's shoulder. "He's well looked after now, lad. Time'll come when that will be your duty solely. For now, leave him in the missus's hands." Sam obeyed, both eager to bear good news and reluctant to leave.

Inside the house, the doctor and Mrs Boffin had stepped into the kitchen for some talk. Frodo looked up at Folco and offered his friend a weak smile. "And I thought that I would have no Adventures today!"

Folco puffed his cheeks out, exhaling with relief. If Frodo felt good enough to jest, then he would probably be all right. "Perhaps you will see my point now, Frodo. Sometimes it is better to have a nice, quiet, boring afternoon."

Frodo lay back and closed his eyes, "I haven't the strength to argue with you, Folco. Will you do me a favour?"

"Anything, Frodo," Folco said eagerly.

"Find that little bottle in the Doctor's bag for me, and then hide it!

**II  
The Female of the Species**

Ivy retreated into the kitchen when the doctor touched her elbow gently. She asked Folco sit and watch Frodo, telling him to inform her instantly if he moved or spoke. With shaking hands she made some tea for herself and the doctor. Halebody watched her and said nothing.

"Are you sure he's going to be all right, Doctor?"

"Yes, ma'am. He just had a bit of a reaction to the venom in the spider's bite. Not at all uncommon. If he gets plenty of rest, he will be fine in a day or two." Doctor Halebody sipped his tea and added, "Until the next incident."

Ivy looked at him in surprise. "'The next incident'? Don't tell me this has happened before?"

"Not as such, ma'am. But, I regret to say I've paid many a hasty visit to the Hill these years since young Baggins has come to live in Hobbiton. Far more frequently than I ought, in my opinion." Ivy's eyes grew round. "Now, it's not my way to speak of such things freely, Mrs Boffin. It's just that... well, the lad has only Mr Bilbo as a guardian. Mr Baggins is a capitol fellow, now, don't misunderstand me! He's never let harm come to the lad, nor inflicted it directly. But he's not skilled in raising a child and frankly, I worry about the boy. This 'adventurousness' that Bilbo encourages... well, your own lad has more sense, Mrs Boffin. When one goes looking for trouble, one tends to find some.

"I guess what I am trying to say, Ivy," Doc Halebody set his cup down carefully, without a clatter, "Is that it would put my mind at ease if you would take as much interest in the boy as you felt inclined. The lad may be nearing his full growth, but he still needs the touch of a mother in his life."

Halebody finished his tea while Ivy thought about his words. "I'll look in on him again tonight after supper, ma'am, but I am sure he will be fine. He may mention some pain or have trouble sleeping; that will be normal. Just dribble a drop or two of this in his milk or tea," the doctor handed her a tiny glass vial filled with a black, syrupy liquid. "Just a drop or two, no more! He'll sleep deeply afterward."

Halebody picked up his bag and set his hat on his head. He looked toward the parlour for a moment, then he smiled at Ivy. "He_ is_ lucky, you know. The bite of the widower-spider is painful, but the sting of his mate can be deadly. I have observed that the female of the species is usually the more dangerous—present company excepted, of course!" He tipped his hat to Mrs Boffin and departed.

Ivy closed the door behind him, absently slipping the vial into her apron pocket. Dr Halebody's words burned her ears, and she wasn't sure what to think of it all. She knew Bilbo to be especially conservative toward Frodo's health and welfare, even if he was unconventional about his education. He had brought Frodo up to be unfailingly polite, proper, and genteel. Certainly, he was still a child, but not so careless as some.

She peeked into the parlour and smiled gently. Folco was sitting patiently and quiet in her rocking chair, watching Frodo sleep. He looked up when he heard her sigh. He stood up, careful not to let the rocker clatter against the floor, and came to her side to whisper, "Is everything all right now, mum? How's Frodo?"

She smiled tenderly at him. "Everything is going to be just fine. Let's have some tea and let him sleep."

But Frodo was not asleep. He had been lying quietly listening. It was strange how clearly he could hear everything in the house. He wished he could turn off his ears. His heart was cold and he felt sick still. He wanted to move, but he was worried that it would unsettle his stomach again. When he heard them creep out of the room, he sat up carefully, unable to suppress a groan. All his joints ached as if he had fallen down a mountainside.

Ivy came back instantly. She put her hand behind his back and helped him sit up. "How are you feeling, dear?"

Frodo tried to smile at her, but it was rather stiff and unconvincing. "I'm fine, Mrs Boffin. I feel a little tired and very foolish. I am sorry to be such a bother."

Ivy smoothed his hair back from his brow with a light touch. "When you become a bother to me, Frodo Baggins, I shall make mention of it. It's nobody's fault that you got a spider in your collar... except maybe the spider's!"

"Yes, ma'am." Frodo rubbed his hands and arms. Why did he ache so? "I should not have left my shirt on the grass like that. Uncle Bilbo warned me to shake out clothes and blankets left on the ground. He takes me camping, and that is one of his first rules! He'll have words for me for being so careless." Frodo was trying to sound light-hearted, but Ivy noticed the crease in his brow that did not smooth away with his smile.

"Are you hurting, Frodo?"

"Well, I don't want to be a both... er, maybe a little. My hands are sore..." his voice trailed to a mumble. He didn't want to be a crybaby.

"Doctor said that you might feel achy. He left you something for that." Ivy prepared a cup of tepid tea and let fall two drops from the small bottle in her apron.

Frodo drank it cautiously. For once, the medicine was not bitter. He handed her back the cup with a "Thank you, ma'am."

Ivy looked at him for a long moment, then she sat down next to him and gathered him under her arm. She drew Folco to her other side and the three of them snuggled together under a quilt on the settee.

"Will you tell us a story?" Folco asked, leaning against his mother's warmth and softness.

"Surely, my dear," Ivy thought for a moment, then said, "Lads, have you ever heard of the kukkow bird?" Both boys shook their heads no. "Well, the kukkow bird is a very strange bird. It doesn't build nests like other birds do. Instead, they find a nest that is already built, with unhatched eggs a-laying. The lady bird leaves her eggs in that nest, and then flies away and never comes back."

"Why would she do that, mum?" asked Folco. "Doesn't she care about her chicks?"

"I'm sure she does. I can't imagine a mother who doesn't care about her young ones. But for some reason the kukkow can't stay and hatch her own eggs. So she has to find someone who can take care of her chicks for her."

Frodo was slowly leaning more heavily on Ivy's side until his head sank gradually onto her knee. He was trying to listen but everything was so soft and warm and soothing. "I like birds," Frodo murmured, "They eat spiders." Ivy laughed gently and stroked his hair as he cuddled in her lap.

Folco pulled the corner of the quilt more snugly under Frodo's chin, then asked his mother, "Why does the mother bird sit on an egg that is not her own? Wouldn't she know that the strange egg wasn't hers?"

"She may not realize that it isn't, Folco. Birds are not people. But even if she did know, I think she would take care of it anyway. It doesn't matter to some mothers, if the chicks are just like hers or different; she loves them all the same, because her heart knows no limits."

Frodo drifted to sleep to the sound of Folco's questions and Ivy's soft answers. All his discomfort was gone, and he felt safe. Perhaps it was the poppymilk, or maybe his long day had caught up with him; he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

Folco looked at his friend lying across his mother's lap. "Mum, I wouldn't mind sharing a nest… if the other little bird was like Frodo."

Ivy hugged her son and kissed him soundly on top of his head. "I love you, my darling Folco. You are such a big-hearted lad!" She smiled down at him. "We aren't kukkow birds, and Frodo can't come live in our nest, but we can still take care of him, right?"

"Of course!" Folco said firmly, laying his head on his mother's other knee. "There is always plenty of extra love around here!"

**III  
****Racing and Rumours**

Three days later, Frodo felt very much like himself again. He went with Folco and his parents to the Bywater Fair. It was a fine summer day, with a sky high overhead and the sun warm all over. There was enough of a breeze to keep the pennants flapping merrily and strings taunt on all the kites being flown. They littered the sky like colourful ships sailing without water, their long tails moving sinuously in the waves of the air.

But it was not only kites and flags flying in the air that day. Everywhere they went, heads turned toward them, and Frodo was greeted warmly by many folks, all seeming surprised and delighted to see him. He felt warmly happy at first, but that speedily changed to concern when he was repeatedly questioned about his health. "I am quite well, thank you," he repeated for the tenth time, before they had even reached the baked-goods judging tent.

"Hullo, Mrs Chubb! I feel fine, thank you for inquiring. How is your family?"

"I've never felt better, Mr Brockhouse. What a fine day it is! How is your farm?"

"Splendid, Mrs Banks-Burrower. I can't complain at all. How is Master Banks; was the winter good to him this year?"

Frodo felt a little breathless after the first wave of well-wishers finally ebbed. He walked close to Mrs Boffin and she laid a hand across his shoulders, offering him a puzzled smile. They walked on, and Frodo watched the faces full of curiosity turn to neighbors and the whispering began. He turned away and tried to ignore them.

There were many entries to the pie baking and decorating competition, but Ivy Boffin's pie won first place, as usual. This year, as a joke for just her, Folco, and Frodo, she had decorated the pie with a fine spiderweb pattern. The hobbit-lads laughed as they ate their victory slices.

After lunch, Ivy let the lads run about the fair together while she visited with the other ladies. Frodo and Folco headed immediately to the racing grounds. Many of their friends were already gathered there. Frodo saw Samwise and the Cotton lads, as well as Fredegar Bolger and some other young hobbits he was friendly with from Hobbiton and Bywater.

Sam smiled at him, but didn't get a chance to speak to Frodo as his other friends descended upon him like crows.

"Hullo, Frodo! Coming to race with us?" asked Fredegar, or Fatty as all his friends called him. "I heard you were laid up, sick."

Frodo suppressed a sigh. "I am perfectly fine, Fatty. But I cannot race with you today."

The hobbit-lads gasped in disappointment. Frodo was the one to beat; he had won many races against them, and they had wanted a re-match. "But why, if you're as well as you say?"

"I promised Folco's mother that I wouldn't overtax myself. Of course, running against you lot could hardly be described as overtaxing…" Frodo laughed to show he was jesting, and they _chucked_ at him and objected in mock-injured tones. They begged that he join the race, but he firmly refused. "You'll just have to take on my protégé Folco. He's half rabbit, you know. I don't think even I could catch him!"

There was a rousing chorus of protests, and Folco was gaffed into the race. He smiled happily, pleased to be in the center of the merriment. Frodo himself dropped the handkerchief to start the race, and then cheered on Folco enthusiastically. Sam, who had also refrained from entering the race, stood at his side, holding the string across the finishing line to judge the winner.

Folco showed the other taller lads his paces that day, his small quick frame outrunning the larger, stronger boys by a length. Shouts of excuses and denial were drowned in merry laughter, and challenges were made for the next races at the Pumpkin Fair come next month. Frodo vowed that he would be there to take back his title from Folco, "…Come wolves or high water!"

The rest of the day went splendidly, right through to the evening. Frodo saw more of his friends and kindred; Samwise with his Gaffer, of course, and little Peregrin turned up with his mother and father. Paladin always had firm handshake and a word of advice for Frodo whenever he saw him and Aunt Eglantine a warm smile. But today at the supper banquet, they wore faces of worry and stress when he came to say his greeting to them. They appeared relieved when he spoke to them cheerfully.

"We'd had news you were ill, Frodo," said Paladin, when Frodo asked what was wrong. "Plain idle gossip, I am glad to see. Why, you look very healthy and able to me!"

Peregrin winked at Frodo from behind his mother's skirt. Frodo knew he'd hear the full tale from the young Took. Pippin's ears were as quick as his appetite.

"I am fine, I assure you, sir. Thanks to Mrs Boffin's excellent care, I am fully mended."

Aunt Eglantine looked less than fully convinced. "I heard that you had been poisoned."

"Egla..." Paladin said gently.

"Not poisoned, dear aunt," Frodo said hastily, "Bitten by a wee spider, no bigger than that lovely pearl on your blouse-button! I still have a welt under my collar!" He showed her the slowly fading bite mark. "I was the unlucky one that day. Why, Folco, Samwise and all the Cotton children were playing in that very same spot, where the spider got onto my shirt. Any of us could have been stung."

"I think it is clear that rumours have been exaggerated about this, Frodo," Paladin said with a look at his wife, who appeared somewhat ashamed. "Where is Mrs Boffin? I think we owe her a word of thanks, for taking care of our favourite young cousin..."

Peregrin grabbed Frodo's sleeve and almost dragged him into a tent nearby. His eyes were dancing with mischief.

"What have you heard, Pippin?" Frodo asked.

"Oh, me dad is angry! He heard it from the seed-merchant, who spoke to the blacksmith at Nearbarns, who learned from the baker in Hobbiton that you were dead poisoned by one of Mrs Boffin's jars of spoilt jam!"

Frodo was shocked. "What on earth... and Aunt Egla believed that?"

"Da didn't. He said it was..." Pippin giggled and whispered the offending word in Frodo's ear, what his father has said when he thought his son wasn't listening. Frodo's ears turned pink.

"Peregrin Took! He did _not_ say that! Well… maybe he did." Frodo coughed and looked at him sternly, the corners of his lips twitching as it they wanted to smile. "I don't ever want to hear that word from your lips again!"

"I'm just telling you what Da said." Pippin was not intimidated. "Mum said Cousin Bilbo would answer to her for leaving you in someone else's care. And I heard that Merry's mum fainted on the spot when she heard the same news... though Saradoc did not believe a word of it."

"Aunt Esme! Is she all right? Oh, how do these silly rumours and falsehoods get started? It is ridiculous that lies should run so fast, and the truth be trailed through the mud behind! I must send them a message at once..."

"They'll be here by tomorrow. I heard Da say he'd sent for them."

"Sent for them? To prove I am alive?" Frodo was overwhelmed. Bucklebury to Hobbiton was no small distance. To ride so far just because of a rumour…!

"Among other things. Cousin Bilbo's due back then, and I heard Da say that..."

The tent-flap was flipped up at that moment, and Pippin was hauled off by one ear by his mother. Paladin laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder and glowered a little.

"I meant to tell you myself some of the things my nosy son has shared with you, Frodo. You see, this is how rumours get started and spread... folks listening and talking without knowing. Come and have a cream ale with your Uncle Paladin and we'll do some real talking."

**IV  
The Things We Want Most**

Paladin took his younger cousin to a quiet table and set him down with a mug of ale. He politely asked Eglantine to take Peregrin to find some food, making it clear that she should take her time. She nodded, but did not look wholly pleased to be excluded from the conversation. She towed Pippin away, who looked even less pleased not to hear what his father would say to Frodo.

Frodo sat and waited for the Thain to speak. He was aware of the eyes upon them; curious hobbits who had greeted Frodo warmly that day but spoke nothing to him of these strange tales. For a moment Frodo felt keenly frustrated that no one told him the things that were being said, but his anger was brief. Bilbo treated him as an adult always, but in everyone else's eyes, he was still a child.

Paladin watched Frodo and said nothing until the ruddyness faded from the young hobbit's face. He didn't want to hurt Frodo's feelings or rouse his anger. He knew from raising several children of his own that they listened with their hearts instead of their ears when they were angry. He wanted Frodo's full attention.

"I know that you have heard this question all day, Frodo," Paladin began, and immediately Frodo noticed that Paladin's manner toward him had become different. There was no note of patronization, however kind or correct considering the position of his elder. He looked Frodo straight in the eye and spoke to him as an equal.

"I know that you have heard this question all day, Frodo, but I do truly wish to know if you are in fact feeling well. Plus, with this shock come so sudden... are you truly all right?"

Frodo's voice sounded hollow in his own ears, "I am fine, thank you for inquiring." He felt a strong urge to lower his eyes, but he wished to maintain this feeling of equality for as long as possible. It was Paladin who looked away first, though he did not change his manner of speaking.

"I don't think I have told you, though I trust you do know it—how pleased and proud I am concerning you." Frodo's eyes widened slightly. This he hadn't expected. "You are a fine-grown hobbit and you have exceeded all my expectations. You are a credit to the memory of your father and mother. I know that Bilbo's influence has had a lot to do with that.

"He's given you things that none of the rest of the family could have given, not just time and money and a hole to live in. He has invested himself in you, and you have proved his trust. If he hasn't made it clear to you, you should know—the family is proud of you, Frodo."

Paladin took a drink from his mug, allowing Frodo a moment to collect himself. His eyes brimmed with tears, threatening to undo his new mature self-image. He allowed himself a smile and took a drink from his own mug. It tasted sweet.

"If I could change one thing about your childhood, Frodo, other than sparing your dear parents, I would have had you raised in the Great Smials with my family. I should have made more of a kicking all those years ago, and brought you home with me. But I think things have gone as well or better than they might have. Do you have any lack, Frodo? Are you lonely or unhappy in any way? Even now, I would make room for you in my life, if you so desired it. I mean no disrespect to Bilbo; he is a capitol fellow for all his oddities. I don't think you could do better in the Shire—or out of it, truth to tell."

Frodo nodded in agreement. "I am completely happy, Paladin, sir. And I am most gratified by your words. If it were possible for me to be happier, I imagine it could only happen in Tuckborough."

"I'm pleased to hear you say that, lad... I mean Frodo," Paladin said, determined to maintain their new understanding. "Listen, Frodo; when it's just us talking, you use my right name and forget the 'sir', all right? I will never doubt your respect." He winked then, and leaned in to whisper, "Egla loves it when you call her 'Aun'tine'!"

"Yes, s... Paladin." Frodo grinned back, and Paladin raised his mug and clicked it against Frodo's. They drained their mugs together.

As they set them down, two fresh pints appeared on the board, along with two more. "My complements, gentlehobbits," said Rondo Boffin. Ivy smiled at Frodo and bobbed a curtsy to Paladin. "May we join you?"

"Make room, there, Frodo-lad," said Paladin with a wink, and Frodo scooted down the bench to allow Ivy and her husband to sit. Eglantine, with her daughters and Peregrin, appeared with platters of food. Folco slid onto the end of the bench on Frodo's other side with two cups of pressed apple cider. Frodo smiled at him.

"Room for one more?" Every head at the table swiveled, and Bilbo chuckled at their surprise.

"Uncle!" Frodo was sandwiched in, but he tried to stand up to greet Bilbo. "You're back early!"

The older hobbit waved him to sit down. "Yes, finished business quicker than I thought I would! Glad to be back in time for the feast. Best part of the faire, I have always thought. Eglantine and Ivy; you both look lovely tonight! Is there an extra mug of ale lying about for a road-weary hobbit?"

Frodo offered Bilbo his mug of ale. "I've had one already, Uncle. I think I'd prefer juice." Frodo shot a glance at Paladin who was beaming at him from behind Bilbo's back. "No need to grow up, too fast."

⌂

Frodo went home that night with his uncle, saying goodbye to Folco and his family at the fair. He hugged Ivy and left a kiss tingling on her cheek. "Thanks for taking care of me," he said softly.

Glad as he was to have Bilbo back, Frodo was a little nervous when he closed the door behind them. He wasn't the only one who was upset. Bilbo hung up his cloak and leaned his walking stick against the wall, but it fell with a clatter, startling them both.

"Bilbo?" Frodo touched his uncle's sleeve. The old hobbit was trembling.

It was dark in the smial. No one had been in for almost a week, and as they hadn't been expected back until tomorrow, the Gaffer hadn't been in to light the hearth. Frodo sought with knowing fingers for a candle and a tinderbox, and by the time he had the beeswax lit, Bilbo had composed himself.

"What really happened, Frodo?" Bilbo asked. "I really hadn't planned on being back so soon, but I got news on the wind that you... that something bad..."

"I am fine, Uncle," Frodo said firmly. "I am perfectly fine. Mrs Boffin took good care of me, and someone made a dog's tail into a dragon's. I am sorry your business got interrupted, sir."

Bilbo coughed and kept his face turned away from the candle. Frodo busied himself lighting a fire in the parlour hearth. When the light had grown and some warmth was spreading into the rooms, Frodo turned and looked at Bilbo.

He looked the same as he did when he left, but some how he looked older, too. He had his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and he seemed to be thinking hard about something.

"Do you want a cup of tea, Bilbo?"

"Yes, lad, I do. But first let's talk some. I know I should have listened to my heart when I heard those lies about you being poisoned, but I had to hurry back to make sure. Forgive your old uncle. The things we want most to hold onto are the very things we cannot keep."

Frodo looked at Bilbo with a tilt to his head, "What do you mean, sir?"

Bilbo sighed. "This 'business' I have been about, Frodo... well, I don't know where to start. Sit down, lad and let me shuffle my thoughts." Frodo sat down and studied the pattern on the carpet below his feet while Bilbo settled into his chair.

"Frodo," he began at last, "I haven't been entirely forthright with you. Once I said, 'no secrets between us', but I confess, I have been planning something without telling you about it wholly. I really didn't mean for it to be a secret, but there seemed no good time to discuss it..."

"You're going away, I know," Frodo said quietly.

Bilbo glanced at him sharply. "Well, now! Either I am not as clever as I thought, or you are skillful at keeping a secret yourself! I would have wagered dragon's gold that you did not know."

Frodo smiled at Bilbo. "We do live in the same smial, uncle. You must give me credit, being the heir of the famous Burglar of Bag End."

"Indeed! And it is credit that you deserve, my boy. I have heard other things as well... not this trip, I mean. When I go about, when I mention your name, everyone wishes you well. They all say what a fine hobbit you've become, and that you'll be well capable of taking care of yourself once I have gone."

Frodo returned his glance to the carpet. After a few long moments, he spoke, "I wish that there was some way that I could go with you, Bilbo. I would go with you, if you asked me to. I want to see the mountains and the wild country, and know the strange places and creatures you have described, and maybe even find some that neither of us have seen. An Adventure, just like we have always spoken about.

"But I also want to stay here, in the Shire. There are people here who I care about, whose birthdays I would miss, and who I would think about as I moved farther away, until I was lost from myself. I never really realized it until now, Bilbo, but I do love the Shire. I know it seems mundane and boring to you, when you have seen the halls of the Mountain King and dined with Elves in the Last Homely House." Frodo laughed, though he felt as if his heart was being torn in two. "Would you forgive me, Bilbo, for wanting to stay here?"

Bilbo smiled, and the last vestiges of chill left Frodo's soul. "Lad, I am so pleased to hear you say that! Of course I would welcome you on my Adventure, but then I'd have to go and find another heir, and well... there is none better than the one I picked already! And there isn't time, anyway. Not that I plan to leave tomorrow or the next day, mind you! I'm not going anywhere further than Sarn Ford before your thirty-third birthday, my lad, so don't plan on moving your things into the Master Bedroom yet!"

Frodo and Bilbo both laughed. A weight seemed to have been lifted from both of their heads, and now that the darkness was broken and the cold driven away, weariness of the day came to them, and they began to yawn.

"I think I'll have that tea tomorrow morning, lad, if you don't mind," Bilbo said. "Paladin and Saradoc are expected for second breakfast, I hear. So I'm for bed now, in a real bed, for a welcome change. No leaves in my hair or moss on my toes tonight! Good night!"

"Good night, Uncle," Frodo answered. He banked the fire, but remained in the parlour for some time. There was a map that his uncle had set in a frame and placed on the wall near the hearth. Frodo lifted it off of its hook and took it near the fire to see it more clearly.

It was old and worn, and had been rolled and folded many times. Frodo brushed a finger lightly over the dry parchment, as if the ink might still be wet some how, even after so many, many years. A little red dragon flew over a solitary mountain. For a moment, Frodo could hear the crackle of its breath in the hearthwood. He carefully replaced the picture on the wall, and retired to his own bed.

'Someday', Frodo thought as he sank into sleep, 'Someday, I will go and maybe find a treasure, or solve my own riddle in the dark. Maybe I will fight a dragon, or see a mountain, or travel to the Elves' lands. But not tomorrow, and not the day after...' and he fell into a pleasant dream that enfolded him in warmth throughout the night.


	15. Ch 15 Girdley Island

**Chapter 14; Girdley Island  
**_in seven parts_

_This chapter takes place well before the setting of 'The Young Rascal of Buckland', before Frodo Baggins was adopted by Bilbo and brought to live in BagEnd. _

_It is a long chapter, for it was initially presented as a serial—as were all the chapters in this story, long and short. I deliberated for a long while as to whether or not I should present this as a separate story all-together, but I have chosen to leave it here, acting as the fourteenth chapter of 'The Heir of the Hill'. _

_-Lothithil_

**  
I  
Holiday in Buckland**

Frodo woke from his drowsy nap as the wheels of the pony-cart rattled over the Brandywine Bridge. His head was pillowed by his mother's soft knee, and she had one arm around him. He felt warm and safe. Awake now, he continued to lay across her lap, enjoying having her all to himself for a little while longer.

He knew this wouldn't happen very often once they reached the end of their journey. They were traveling to Brandy Hall to visit his mother's kin. Once they arrived Frodo would be swept away by the eager crowd of assorted hobbit-fry that lived in and around Buck Hill. They would keep him busy playing near the river and under the eaves of the High Hay, while his mother sat with her sisters and sisters-in-law, knitting and gossiping. His father would be busy with Rorimac, discussing the news of the Shire and Buckland. Frodo would see his parents at mealtimes, from the place where the young hobbits ate together. Then he would not see them again until bed-time, when they would come and bring him to the rooms that were set aside just for them.

So often did they visit and their stays were always lengthy, that Menegilda had said that they should have their own rooms always ready for them. The young hobbits of Brandy Hall slept together in a dormitory, but Frodo was privileged to sleep in a small room adjacent to his parent's. Often he would creep into their room and onto the huge bed to snuggle between his mother and father. But the next morning, it was off for more play and fair days.

The Brandywine River was a source of excited fear and wonder to the young hobbit. The wide brown waters were always moving, and the water never ran out, no matter how long it flowed. Frodo wondered where all the water came from. He would sit beside it and dangle his hand in the strong current, until an adult hollered at him to "Git 'way from that water, young fella! D'ya wan' ta drown?"

Frodo wasn't worried about drowning. He thought himself a fair swimmer. He practiced in the Pool whenever he visited his cousins in Hobbiton. Frodo knew that rivers were different to swim in than pools, but he was sure that he could keep his head above water. The children in Bywater said he was part-fish, he was such a good swimmer. But he obeyed the adults and tried to stay away from the River when he was alone.

The children ran down to the banks often, skipping stones or fishing, picking up things on the soft sandbars where the river bent and pushed the soil into heaps. There were many interesting stones to be found there. Some were as smooth as glass, others bitten and pocked as if they had been teethed on by a stone troll, and in all the colours of the imagination. Frodo found them and took them to show his mother and father. They let him keep the most interesting ones and gave him a little wooden box in which to collect them.

This visit was sure to be just like the others, and Frodo was happy to be there. His parents were happy, and when his mother smiled like that, Frodo wanted to laugh aloud with joy. Drogo puffed contentedly on his pipe and patted Frodo's head. Frodo felt proud to be his son. The young hobbit felt a wee twinge of guilt for wanting to keep his parents all to himself. They had as much fun in Buckland as he did.

They had not even made it all the way to Brandy Hall when the hoards of hobbit-fry appeared, clamouring for Frodo to come and play. Frodo waved to them and called, "I must greet my uncle and aunt first! I promise I will come and play right after!" Drogo clucked at the pony and they waded though the ocean of children.

On the steps of the Hall, Rorimac and his son Saradoc were waiting. Menegilda was there also, and Saradoc's wife Esmeralda, holding their two-year old son on her wide hip. Frodo leapt from the wagon and helped his mother climb down, then ran and bowed dutifully to his elders.

Rorimac frowned at him as he always did, but then his grizzled expression softened. "And good day to you, young Master Baggins. Go on with you now and play with your friends. They have been chattering like birds all day, waiting for you to arrive. Keep them out of the Hall for a few hours, while I speak to your parents, would you? There's a good lad..." and Frodo was sent away with a pat on the seat.

Frodo paused to tickle young Meriadoc under his chubby chins, grinning and bowing to his Aunt Esme before turning eagerly away. Someone tossed him a colourful ball, and soon they were playing a game.

Drogo watched his son for a while, lingering on the doorstep after the others had gone inside. Hearing Frodo's ringing laugh as he played with the other children made him feel all the more strongly about talking to his wife about having a second child. Frodo had been difficult for her, but it usually was hard the first time—or so he had heard. Drogo set his thoughts aside for the moment, planning to discuss them with her when they had a few moments alone.

He heard Rory calling for him already. 'Time for the adults to play, too,' he thought with a grin. Taking a last look at his son running beneath the trees, he went inside.

**  
II  
Late for Breakfast**

Frodo was famished by dinnertime, as if he hadn't eaten a full luncheon at Stonebow after he and his parents had crossed the Brandywine on their way to Bucklebury. He had been playing all afternoon, and teatime had come and passed unnoticed, and now his stomach was empty and he felt as if he were becoming transparent; he was so hungry. As he hurried to the usual table where the children gathered together to eat, he saw his mother wave to him from the head table. He went obediently to her side.

"Did you have a nice day, son?" she asked, removing a leafy twig that was entangled in his hair. He had washed his hands, but had forgone a glance in the looking-glass. She smoothed his unruly curls affectionately.

"Yes, mum." Frodo longed to show her the stones he had found, but he would have to wash his hands again if he dug into his trouser-pockets, and he was so hungry he did not want to wait.

"Get you to the lower table, young Baggins," Rorimac rumbled, sliding into his chair next to Primula. "You are not yet old enough to dine with your elders."

"Yes, Master." Frodo said, his smile fading a little under the intimidating glower of his uncle. Primula brushed his cheek with her fingers and smiled at him, and he forgot his discomfort instantly. He walked back to the little table as quickly as dignity would allow.

Frodo ate heartily, enjoying the fact that there was no talking to interrupt more important business. Unlike the adults, who lingered over courses and seemed to think that every mouthful required a sentence of appreciation, the hobbit-fry merely dove into their heaped plates and filled their bellies. As soon as they showed signs of slowing, the aunties, unmarried ladies of Buck Hill who looked after the children, hustled them out of the hall to get ready for bed. There was much protest, amid a chorus of yawns and sleepy stumbling, but it was obvious that Frodo's arrival and a day of games had worn them all out. He felt much the same himself and quietly retired to a bunk in the dormitory, too weary even to find his parent's rooms. He was confident that he would wake to find his dada had collected him and placed him safely in his own little bedroom.

When he woke, however, he found that he was still in the dormer, and he thought that his parents must have forgotten him entirely. He felt a brief twinge of disappointment, then sighed and shook his head at himself. Here he was, nearly twelve years old, and still behaving like a baby! His parents could manage a night or two without him, surely! The beds in the dorm were comfortable enough, and he had slept right through anyway. He rose to join the other children at breakfast.

He was the last to arrive in the hall, seemingly. The meal was already in progress, though there was no fear of lack for the latecomer. The aunties piled his plate high after inspecting his hands and face. Frodo was glad he had taken the time to wash before coming to table. He dug into his meal, and then glanced toward the head table.

His parent's chairs were empty! Frodo stopped in mid-bite of sausage. He searched the other tables for them fruitlessly and then stood up, intent on going to find them. An auntie pushed him back into his seat.

"If you think you're going anywhere without cleaning your plate, you're still asleep, little Baggins! Eat before it all gets cold."

"But me Mum and Dada..." Frodo said, pointing to the table. "Aunt Petunia, where are they?"

"Still abed after a long night's talking with Master Rory, no doubt! I'll see that they get some breakfast, if you little piglets don't eat the pantries bare!" She patted Frodo on his head. "Don't worry so, lad! I am sure they are fine!"

Frodo sat down but could not enjoy his meal. He ate without appetite, constantly looking around for his parents. When the Master rose from the table, Frodo slipped from his bench and hurried to the rooms where his parents were staying.

The door was closed. Frodo seized the handle but could not bring himself to open it. He was suddenly very afraid. He knocked softly instead, then more loudly when there was no answer.

"Half a moment," came a sleepy reply, and Frodo sighed with relief to hear his father's voice. The door opened and showed a sleepy-eyed Drogo still in his nightshirt, a robe wrapped around his shoulders. "What's wrong, Frodo-lad? Did we miss breakfast?"

Frodo wanted to hug him frantically and let fall the tears that were filling his eyes, but his young dignity rose up in him, and he laughed instead. "Aunt Petunia said that she would be sending breakfast for you and Mum. I just... I mean, I was... needing to change my clothes," Frodo added lamely.

Drogo smiled and closed the door behind his son. He never feared that Frodo would get into mischief; the lad was such a poor liar, his father could see right through his dissembling.

"Your mother and I were up rather late, but it is high time we started our day." Drogo patted Frodo's shoulder and said, "Go and wake your mother gently."

Frodo crawled up onto the bed. He found that he didn't want do as his father had instructed. Primula was still sleeping, and there was a softness and fragile beauty about her as she lay drowned in sleep, bathed in the sunlight that leaked through the lace curtains drawn over the window. Frodo lay his head on her breast, listening to her heart beating. When Drogo returned from his bath, he found them both asleep; Primula with her hand on her son's dark curls, Frodo with his left forefinger crooked, suckling on the knuckle as if he were still a babe. Both were lit now by the rising sun. It gleamed off of their white skin and the coverlets and pillows.

Drodo sighed, considering just sliding into bed beside them-- dash the rest of the morning! –but a soft knock on the door stopped him. At the sound, Primula's eyes opened and she smiled at her husband, then bent and kissed the top of Frodo's head.

Petunia bustled in with a large tray heaped with food, and behind her came Amaranth with a steaming pots of tea and coffee. "All right, sleepyheads!" Petunia announced. "If it is bed you still desire, then I shall leave again with this breakfast feast. I am sure there are hungry little hobbit-fry who did not finish their breakfast who might eat it," she nodded toward Frodo.

"Please bring it inside," Drodo said. "Thank you very much! Rorimac couldn't let the tale go last night, and I fear we did encourage him with our interest."

"That one! He is naught but a very large fry himself! He is used to staying up all hours... I shouldn't wonder if you all go straight back to bed again. But eat your breakfast first, and take a stroll outside. It is too fair a morning to completely forsake!" She and Amaranth set the table swiftly and left them.

Frodo was awake, too, but he groaned a gentle complaint as Primula stirred. He clung to her like a little opossum when she sat up, and giggled as she tickled his neck with her long dark hair.

At the table, once the first wave of hungry silence passed, Frodo glanced up at his parents and sighed, feeling foolish again for all the fears he had entertained that morning. He wondered if they might not rather be alone together today, but there was a desire in his heart that he wished to voice. He debated with himself silently, toying his breakfast with a fork.

Drogo leaned toward him and whispered loudly, "If Aunt Petunia sees you playing with your food, she might have a fit!"

Frodo laughed and took a large bite of eggs. He offered his mother some toast before taking another slice. "Mum, Dada, I was wondering... do you think we could go to Girdley Island today?"

"Hmmm..." said Drogo over his coffee cup, "I don't know, what do you think, Prim dear?"

"Girdley Island? That is a long way to go. Why would you want to go there?" Her eyes were shining as she said this, and she was looking at her husband.

"Come on, you two!" exclaimed Frodo. "You have told me all my life about Girdley Island. You said that was when you and Dada first thought about me, before I was even born. You promised to take me there, someday."

Drogo cleared his throat and stroked his son's hair. "In truth, we were just last night discussing the idea of going to Girdley Island again. That was a favourite spot for us to go to when we were courting. We went there on our honeymoon and camped for two weeks. Remember, Prim?" Primula was blushing fiercely. "Shall we take our son to our secret garden?"

"I think yes, Drogo dear, but not today." She smiled at Frodo to ease his disappointment. "Tomorrow is Saradoc's son's birthday, and there is much to do in preparation. Let us set a picnic for the day after. Does that suit you, Frodo-love?"

"Yes, Mum," Frodo said, hugging her tightly. "I forgot that tomorrow was Merry's birthday! I can hardly wait until he is older still, so I can play with him more. All he does now is eat and sleep!"

Drogo laughed, "Don't rush him, son. That lad will have plenty of play in him all his life, if he grows up to be anything like his uncle Rory!" Primula swatted Drogo affectionately for carrying on so in front of their son.

"Can I have some coffee?" asked Frodo. The beverage was more rare in the Shire than Buckland, and Frodo had often wondered why his father was so taken with the stuff. He drank it all the time in when they were in Brandyhall, and when they visited Cousin Bilbo in Hobbiton. It smelled good enough, but the youth had never tasted if before.

Primula clucked against it, but Drogo touched her arm gently and offered his cup to Frodo. "Careful, it is still hot..."

Frodo sipped the black beverage, and made a horrible face. "Ugh! Da! That is awful! How can you drink that?"

Drogo smiled and took a drink. "It's an acquired taste, my son. Wakes you up proper, it does!" Frodo was wiping his tongue with his napkin, a look of pure disgust on his face. Drogo and Prim both laughed heartily. In spite of himself, Frodo reveled in the sound and laughed with them.

He rinsed the acrid flavour from his mouth with a long drink of buttermilk. 'Adults could be so weird sometimes,' he reflected solemnly.

**III**  
**Sapphire**

They went out for a stroll around Buck Hill, revived by the fresh air and sunshine. Frodo showed them the stones that he had found the day before, and Drogo and Primula praised them as if they were Elven jewels.

Primula held up a small stone that gleamed bright blue in her palm when caught with the sun. "This one is the exact colour of your eyes, Frodo!" she exclaimed.

"You can keep it, if you want, mum," Frodo said, proud to have interested her in his hobby. "That one is a star-fire, if I am not mistaken. It is fairly common, but usually the pieces I find are very, very small." Primula clasped it in her hand like a treasure. "'The Brandywine River has lots of such stones in it,'" the young lad said, trying to recall each word from memory, "'As it flows through the Evendim Hills which are rich in such mi'rils'. Min-er-els. Minerals."

Drogo looked surprised, "Where did you learn that, son?"

"Cousin Bilbo has a book that the Dwarves gave him. He showed me last time we visited, and read that part to me. I can hardly wait until I can read to myself. He has lots of books!"

"We should get busy teaching you, then. I can't believe you are already twelve, Frodo. It seems only yesterday you were born! You are growing up too fast!" Frodo danced ahead, ducking out from under another hair-mussing tussle. "Oh, think you're too quick for your old da, do you?" Frodo laughed as Drogo caught him and held him upside-down, tickling him mercilessly.

"Ai! Stop, stop it! I am losing my rocks!" The precious stones rained out of his pockets. Drogo set him down and helped him pick them all up. "Go and put them in your box, lad, so you don't lose them. We will wait for you here." Frodo ran off like a rabbit.

Drogo took Primula's hand and kissed it. He turned her hand over and looked at the little blue stone in her palm. "Our next child should have eyes this colour, too, don't you think, my love?"

Primula smiled glowingly. "Another child like our Frodo? That would be very good, but I don't know if we should try; other parents will be jealous of our perfect family."

"Let them be jealous. Shall we bring him a brother, or a little sister to care for?"

"O, Drogo! Do you think I care more for one over the other? You are so silly, sometimes I think I already have two children!"

They waited for a while, but when Frodo did not return, they went to their rooms and sought for him. They found him, asleep in the center of their big four-poster. Smiling, they lay down beside him and shared a dream.

⌂

The next day was a party day. Frodo was up early with his parents, but he saw nothing of them after second breakfast until supper. He was quite busy with games and races to celebrate the birthday of the Heir of Buck Hill.

Meriadoc was but two years old, tottering around and laughing at the bright coloured pennants, pinching the corners of his birthday cake, and cheering on the older hobbits as they ran races in the afternoon. His beaming father Saradoc watched proudly over the sports, and Esmeralda made sure there were plenty of treats and mead-must for the little ones. The young hobbits loved to drink the young honeywine, too early yet to have fermented into the beverage that the adults preferred. It was a traditional springtime beverage, and it tasted like tea laden with lemon and honey.

After dinner, Frodo spied his parents slipping quietly away toward the river. He grinned, knowing they were off to go boating on the Brandywine, one of their favourite pastimes. He waved to them but they did not see him, lost already in the gathering dusk and far from the party lanterns.

There was dancing and music into the night, and Frodo stumbled drowsily toward his room, still holding the gift that Meriadoc had given him. It was a notebook bound in leather and a quill and ink set. Frodo was sure that his parents had let slip to Saradoc and Esme that he wanted to begin learning his letters, and they had arranged this gift for him on Merry's behalf. He set them down carefully on the table. His mother and father weren't back yet from their boat-ride, but that was not unusual. The little blue stone that he had given his mother was laying next to the bed, on a white embroidered handkerchief. There was a single primrose lying there next to it, burgeoning in bud and fragrant. Frodo fetched a glass of water and set the rose it in to keep it from wilting before its time.

Frodo tottered off to his own bed and clumsily removed his party clothes, put on his nightshirt and lay down. Tomorrow morning his parents would take him to the island near Stonebow, as they had long promised. As much fun as he had had that day, Frodo knew that the promise of tomorrow would be sweeter still.

But his dreams that night were dark and horrible.

**IV  
The Things We Hold Precious**

Frodo woke early, shivering in his bed though he woke drenched with sweat. Frightening dreams had kept him from resting. He climbed out of his small bed and plunged his head into the basin of water, trying to rinse away the visions that lay like shadows in him mind. He opened the door to his parent's room carefully, so as not to wake them should the hinges creak.

But they were not in their big bed, nor had the covers been turned down. The fireplace was stone-cold, and nothing seemed to have been moved in the night. Frodo went to his mother's side of the bed, and found that the rose-bud he had set in water had bloomed in the morning sunlight. It was beautiful, and yet Frodo felt unaccountably sad. Where were his parents? Why had they not come?

He dressed hastily, putting on the same clothes he had worn the day before. He ran out of the room and down the halls, all of which seemed curiously empty and quiet for the time of morning. The dinner hall was empty, and the parlours, too. Was everyone outside? Was he all alone? Frodo tried to keep himself calm, but panic was fluttering in his heart. He raced down the hall toward the front door, and collided with Aunt Esme coming out of the kitchen.

Frodo fell back onto his seat and Esmeralda dropped the tray she was carrying with a clatter. He exclaimed and grabbed Frodo up in her arms. "Are you all right, Frodo? Where have you been, child?"

"In-- in bed," Frodo stuttered. He rubbed his head where he had bumped it against the edge of the tray Esme had been carrying. "I'm sorry, Aunt Esme. Let me help clean up..."

"Never mind that, dear! Oh, Frodo we have been so worried! Where are your parents? Have they been with you?"

Frodo shook his head. "No, I am looking for them. They weren't in our room this morning..." Frodo suddenly stopped, his tongue frozen by the look on Esmeralda's face. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and her hands were twisting her apron. "Aunt Esme? Where are they?"

"I don't know, Frodo dear. Their little boat was found overturned in the river. We were hoping that they were sleeping late again, but when we went to their room, no one was there. We didn't even check your room; we assumed you were with them. No one has seen them yet. Maybe... maybe they are safe upriver, and the boat just drifted away." Esme was weeping, but she tried not to frighten Frodo. "Everyone is out looking for them... I was just going to go out and see if they had found... Frodo? Wait, Frodo!!"

Frodo took off running, slamming the front door open as he flung himself out of the Hall. Down to the river where he had seen his parents walk last night he flew, dodging folk who held out hands to hail or stop him. He was caught up short at last on the very brink of the river by Saradoc himself.

The sturdy hobbit grabbed his young cousin, who looked as though he were intent to throw himself into the brown waters. Frodo writhed in his hands, begging him to tell him where his parents were. Saradoc held him tightly until the lad collapsed and began to weep on his shoulder.

"There, there! We don't know anything yet, Frodo. Everyone is out looking. We figured they went upriver last night, and it's likely they stopped somewhere and lost their boat. There's no need for grieving until we know more for certain."

Frodo gulped back his sobs, trying to find some courage within himself. He felt only a cold ache in his heart, and a fear that the dreams he had been troubled with last night were somehow not dreams at all.

He allowed himself to be led back to Brandyhall where Esme took him in hand. She set him down with some tea and food, neither of which he touched. He merely stared at the table top and started at every sound of someone coming or going within the great smial.

As the day wore on, he grew more and more despondent, and soon ceased to respond to spoken word or movement. His blue eyes clouded with tears and did not clear. Esme, completely at a loss at how to comfort him, merely sat beside him and held his limp hand, blotting her own tears of worry away with a linen handkerchief.

The day passed, and the search parties came in from the growing darkness. Everyone was solemn and disturbed; even the children seemed subdued. Frodo refused to go to the mealhall, or touch the food Esme prepared and begged him to sample. He merely sat and stared. Suddenly he stood up and moved to leave the room.

"Frodo, dear... where are you going?" Esme asked.

"To our room. I am tired, and maybe I will wake up from this dream and find everything is all right in the morning. Mum's flower will need water..."

"Frodo, stay here... please. Until we hear something." Esme's lip quivered, fresh tears springing from her eyes.

Frodo turned back and took her hand, patting it to give comfort though his voice was wooden and faint, "Everything will be all right. Don't worry..." The words had been said repeatedly to him all day, and were now as meaningless in her ears as they had been in his. He walked slowly from the room and closed the door softly.

Saradoc took his wife in his arms and held her as she wept, "O, what will we do if we don't find them safe, Serry? He's so young, and all alone!"

"I'll speak to Rory, my dear. It's too soon, still, but I will speak to him. Frodo will have a home here, if the worst comes to pass."

⌂

Frodo walked as if asleep toward their rooms. Folks stepped back into doorways to let him pass, and their soft words meant to encourage but were hollow and forced. He ignored everyone, and turned down the corridor to find the door to their rooms open. His heart beat suddenly with life and he ran forward, hope flaring.

"Dada?! Mum?!" he flung himself inside, but found only Uncle Rorimac and another strange hobbit who had mud dried on his boots... boots? Frodo rocked back, his mind focusing on the strange sight to drive off his confusion. He blinked at the stranger.

"Frodo, go back to Esmeralda," Rorimac said, his harsh words stinging the young hobbit, for all they were spoken softly. Frodo hesitated, then turned and fled. But he did not go back to Esmeralda.

He went to the mealhall and sat at the little table, staring at the place where his parents normally sat. The hall was dark and empty, quiet except for the echoes of movement in the adjacent kitchen, a late working cook preparing the bread that would bake tomorrow morning.

He sat thus for a period of time that meant nothing. He became aware after a while that he was not alone. Saradoc was sitting next to him, patiently waiting to be noticed. Frodo raised his eyes to meet his cousin's; he saw no hope in them, only pity and sorrow. He knew then that his bad dreams were coming true.

When Frodo did not speak, Saradoc nodded. He dropped his gaze down to his hands, large and work-worn and empty; useless for this kind of work. He kneaded his fingers, searching for words.

In a voice very gentle, he said, "I know you don't want to hear this, Frodo, but it is better to know than to dwell in fear and doubt. Your parents were found late this evening, down near where the Marshish borders the River. They must have drowned when their boat overturned. It was an accident, we are certain. There seemed nothing wrong with the boat. They can be tricky on the river, and that water runs deep and swift.

"Frodo, I loved your parents like a brother and sister. This is all so unbelievable and sudden, but it is just times like this when you need your family. Esme and little Merry and I, we are your family. And Rorimac, for all his coarseness and cobbly-nature, cares about you, too. You aren't alone, and you never will be. There are too many folk living in Brandyhall for anyone to be alone."

Frodo listened, but said no word nor made a sign that he had heard, except to close his eyes. He made a wish, feeling that for the first time in his life he truly had something to wish for, so that might make the wish more likely to come true. He opened his eyes, but only Saradoc was there, in the dark hall beside him.

"It didn't work," Frodo said, his own voice sounded strange in his ears.

"What do you mean, Frodo?" asked Saradoc.

"I made a wish, and it didn't work. Wishes aren't real." Frodo felt the tears rising again, so he closed his eyes and fought them.

"You made a wish that your parents would come back safe?" guessed Saradoc cautiously.

"No. I wished that I was with them, wherever they are. I wished I was dead, too. But I'm not."

"No, Frodo, you aren't dead. You are going to be all right. Your parents would want you to go on and have a good life. They loved cheer and food and visiting family and friends, and they had parents once, too. They loved them a great deal and missed them terribly when they died, but they went on living. And they will live inside of you for as long as you live. You are a part of them both."

A tear escaped from each of Frodo's tightly closed lashes. "What do I do next, Uncle Saradoc?"

"Now we hold vigil. Tomorrow we eat bread and remember Drogo and Primula. Then we will lay them to rest. And then... we will _live_." Saradoc stood up. He did not wipe the tears from his own face, nor did he try to stop Frodo from grieving. He held out his large empty hand to his young cousin and said, "Come with me, Frodo."

**V  
Goodbye**

Saradoc led Frodo into the room where his parents had been brought. The little hobbit clung to his cousin's hand and shrank back from the other hobbits in the room, each wearing faces full of sympathy or grief. Frodo saw Rorimac with his face wet with tears, Menegilda was standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders. Esme was there, and many others that Frodo knew in Brandyhall. The empty chairs would be filled as word spread.

Rorimac looked at the young hobbit and then shot a look at Saradoc that Frodo could not interpret. He seemed angry—he was always angry—but he was also sad. Saradoc merely returned his gaze evenly and said, "He needs to be here, Father. He is old enough to learn the truth."

Frodo felt gentle hands guiding him forward. He could see around the hobbits that were standing, circling a bed or a wide table that was covered with linen. His parents were there, lying as if asleep. Frodo forgot everyone else in the room, and he released Saradoc's hand and walked forward slowly.

At first they appeared to be asleep. Mother always looked like that; her skin pale and translucent. But now there was no softness or warmth in her repose. Frodo stopped, not wanting to go closer, not wanting proof but preferring to wonder and hope, but Saradoc was there behind him and he caught Frodo when he backed into his stout legs and nearly fell.

Saradoc looked down at him with kindness, but there was firmness in his face, too. He said gently, "Go to them, Frodo. Tell them goodbye. We are all here to do the same, and no one will speak of what is said and done in this room. We are all family here."

Frodo swallowed with difficulty. He turned and came to his father's side, climbing up on the chair that was set beside the bed. Dada looked very cold. Frodo wished he could cover him with a blanket, but there was none there. He raised a small hand to his father's face. There was no warmth of breath from him. Frodo withdrew his hand.

He went then to his mother, who looked merely as if she were resting deeply. He touched her curling long hair, brushed and laid about her face like a halo. He lowered his head onto her breast, as he had just a day earlier, but the only sound he heard was the seashell roaring of his own heartbeat. A sob shuddered through him, and he felt himself raised by strong arms. He did not fight, but clung to his Uncle Rory, who hugged him tightly and wept onto his hair.

They were gone.

⌂

The next two days were hard for Frodo, and for all the folk in Buckland and the Shire who had known and loved Drogo and Primula Baggins. Waggons began to arrive the morning after the vigil, bearing dark-clothed hobbits who came to say their goodbyes. Apparently an erroneous message had been sent, claiming that the two had perished with their only son. When Frodo was found undrowned, there were many joyful tears amid the grief. Frodo felt uncomfortable, but he let them hug him and cry. He had learned how important it was to be allowed to cry when it was needed.

The breadfeast was a solemn and strange affair. Frodo had little memory of being at such an occasion, though he had as a young fry been present at his grandfather Gorbadoc's funeral only a few years before. He had not known then why everyone was sad, nor that only bread and hardboiled eggs were served for meals. He had been kept with the younger children away from the affair, fed regular meals and entertained away from the main hall.

Now he sat at the family table, where the Master had said a few days before that he was too young to attend, and he broke the bread that Rorimac passed to him, sharing it out to all who came to mourn. Sometimes he wept, but mostly he sat and remembered happy days with his parents. There were many to recall. He did not speak aloud of them, as some folk did, rising from their chairs to regale everyone with a tale or anecdote about sweet Primula or dashing, daring Drogo. He was surprised to find himself sometimes laughing along, brought away from his grief for an instant before recalling the pain of his loss.

The day passed slowly, followed by the night and another sunrise, as if nothing had happened to change a young hobbit's world.

They were buried on a fair hillside, amid the marker of other loved ones, long departed. There were flowers growing everywhere, except for the two patches of fresh overturned earth. Frodo came there after they had been interred, custom being that he was too young yet to attend their final service; he did not mind. He knew they had been placed there with care; he trusted Rorimac and Saradoc.

He lingered in that place for a short time only. They were not there. They weren't anywhere, anymore. He turned and never went back to that place.

Before the burial, when he had gone to say goodbye one last time, he had taken the little blue stone that his mother had cherished, and he placed it in her cold hand, closing her fingers around it. While the elders buried the dead, he took his little box of precious things, the tiny stones he had loved to find and share with them, and he asked Esme to walk him down to the river. He stood on the bank and tossed the stones back into the water, where he had found them. He placed the rose, the last flower his father had given to his mother in love, inside the empty box, pressed between the pages of a blank book bound in leather.

'What do I do next?' he asked himself.

The only answer was the soft beating of his own heart.

**VI  
Tug-of-War**

"Quiet down now! Everyone, take your seats, please, and listen." Rorimac showed his clouded face to his company, daring them to continue their idle conversations. Rory's study had proved too small for the gathering, so Menegilda had seamlessly moved them all to the second parlor, which was rather too comfortable for the uncomfortable business at hand. As much as Rory liked having his kin about him, he intensely disliked some of his more extended family, particularly those related to his late son-in-law.

Otho Sackville-Baggins had arrived in a huff the previous evening and had found something to complain about with every breath he had drawn since he came inside Brandy Hall. Rory was glad his wife had not accompanied him; one Sackville-Baggins was enough.

There was Dora and Dudo Baggins, Drogo's brother and sister, who had shown up in tears and upset because they had missed the funeral. Dora cared for their aging mother Ruby—and for everyone else's business. She wasn't afraid to offer her advice to any ears, asked or unasked. Dudo had a family of his own and a daughter named Daisy. Of the two, Rory would have favoured Dudo as a guardian of his nephew, but the hobbit lived very far away. Rory did not want the entire Shire between him and his sister's son.

Brogo Goodbody had come, a cousin of some wealth who lived in the Northfarthing. He was a reedy, busy-eyed sort with a nervous habit of chewing on his fingers. He had come to see that Frodo was well-placed, but offered no invitation to accept that placement. It was clear he was afraid he would be saddled with the boy.

Posco Baggins had sent word, unable to travel so far too quickly, that he recommended that the Master of the Hill be consulted before Frodo's placement was agreed upon. Rory would have liked nothing better, but unfortunately, Bilbo Baggins was not at home at this time, and no one knew where he was off to. His message had been accepted by the ever-helpful Otho, who just happened to be on the road to Bag End when the messenger came past, and who was now complaining about how drafty the parlour was, in spite of the warm fire burning in the hearth on this early summer day. Rorimac suppressed a sigh.

Paladin Took along with his cousin Ferdinand had come, full of sympathy and support for Rory and his family. Of all present, excepting his own son Saradoc, Paladin would have been the most likely one to which Rory would release Frodo to be cared for.

They had all arrived to discuss the placement of the now orphaned Frodo Baggins. Rorimac had sent out requests for the closely-related family members to come, all correct to Hobbit customs, to make sure the lad was placed in the best home available to him. But Rorimac had only sent the messages to maintain etiquette; he had no intentions of letting anyone raise Frodo but himself. And he had said as much at the opening of their meeting, which had triggered the chorus of arguments. But his mind was set. All he had to do was look in the child's face and he could see his sister; he could not bear to be parted from the lad. But sadly and for the same reason, he could not often bear to look upon him at all.

Rorimac thrust these thoughts from his mind. It was too soon; his grief had not ebbed in the mere week since Primula and Drogo's accident. In time, he was sure he could warm to the boy. Frodo was an intelligent, promising lad. Saradoc was very fond of him, and had emphatically suggested that Frodo be placed with him, to be raised with his own son, but Rorimac had refused even him.

"It would be awkward, boy. There's Meriadoc to consider. He is the clear heir of Brandy Hall. If you adopt Frodo, there may be contention. I shall ward the lad, as is my right as closest relative. He'll keep his name and all his family's deeds, and you can still care for him as much as you like, here in the Hall. He must be raised just like the other children. It will do him good to be part of a large family. It won't do to coddle him; that will just make him soft. He is half Brandybuck; he's tough, even if he is young." And Saradoc could say nothing to dissuade him.

Rory knew the law and he knew his rights, and he told as much to the group. Half of them seemed relieved by his decision; the other half was perversely opposed. And so they had set to arguing with one another. Rorimac called again for peace. His patience beginning to seriously erode.

"Well, all I know," cut in Otho in a loud tone that broke the other muttering off, "is this: Master Rory, you have a vast hall and many, many members of your family around you, but I have only myself and my dear wife, and we would welcome the chance to give little Ofo a good home and the attention a young boy needs."

Otho's false piety nearly gagged Rorimac. He glowered at Otho and would have spoken cuttingly, but his son interrupted him.

Saradoc's face was flushed red with anger as he said, "Weren't you the one who was going on about the family fortune and how the Brandybucks were trying to 'undermine the bloodlines of one of the oldest families in the Shire'?

"Serry, that's enough," said Rory, preventing Otho from expressing his offense. Actually, Rory was pleased that Saradoc had said it before he did. His son was still young enough to get away with a show of temper. Rory used it to his advantage.

"We aren't here to bicker about money or titles," he said gruffly, shooting a stealthy wink at his son. Saradoc subsided. "We are here to see that a young hobbit gets placed in a home where he can be provided for and protected until he is of age to come into his own. I will see that his interests are taken care of, and he will retain the name of Baggins that his father left him, as well as all his property and goods. And that is the end of the argument!"

"But," started Otho obstinately, and Rorimac turned to him to repeat his last words. He did not speak to Otho but looked toward the door that had just opened.

"Bilbo! We had word that you were not to be found in the Shire!"

Bilbo stepped into the parlour, his coat and hat still over his arm. Everyone began to talk at once, with Otho trying to shout down the others. Bilbo let the roar roll over him and when he heeded no one, the talking ceased. "Rorimac. I would have come sooner," Bilbo began, as if there had been no interruption, "but I was indeed away from Bag End. Is it true what I have heard, about dear Primula and her family? I am so terribly sorry! Is there anything I can do?"

"Showing up on time for an important meeting would be a start," muttered Otho loudly.

Rorimac turned to him and said, "Mr Sackville. Since you have come only because the Master of the Hill could not otherwise be found, to represent the Baggins's interests, you may leave now. You are no longer required."

Otho stood up, red-faced. "I only came to see that the child is taken care of. I love that boy..."

"And his name is 'Frodo'—not 'Ofo'—Mr Sackville," added Saradoc. He rose and held the door open for the wrathful hobbit, and closed it softly behind him.

Bilbo was wearing a face that dared to hope. "Forgive me, Rory. I have heard only rumours on the wind, so to speak. Am I to understand that the child is alive and unharmed, contrary to what I have been told?"

"Yes, Bilbo." The hobbit's relief was visible. "There was a boating accident and Drogo and Primula were lost. Frodo is safe, and I have decided to ward him."

"That is a relief to me, Rory. You have already raised a fine lad—see young Saradoc as if any evidence were needed. I only wish that there was something I could do. If anything occurs, you will inform me at once? Drogo was a dear cousin and Primula also; a jewel of a lady. I will miss them both."

"I need to make the guardianship official." Rorimac laid a sheet of parchment on the table. "If everyone here could sign this document, witnessing that I have taken guardianship of Frodo Baggins, and that he should hereafter bear his own name and at the time of his coming of age should take possession of all properties and fortunes that are entitled to him. There's a bit more legal gobblygook, which you are all familiar with. Read it if you want, but sign it before you go. I shall have some tea brought up. Bilbo, a word, if you don't mind..." The hobbit drew Bilbo aside. "I appreciate your coming, Baggins."

Bilbo nodded, "I apologize for inflicting Sackville on you. Believe me, that was not my idea! He is not who I would want to see in my darkest hour."

"He's as comfortable as a silk hedgehog, that's for sure and for certain," agreed Rory. "You said 'if there was anything you could do'...?"

"Anything," repeated Bilbo.

"Can you take a moment and talk to the lad? He is very confused and desolate, and I am still..." Rorimac cleared his throat, blinking back the tears that threatened yet.

Bilbo nodded and clasped Rory's shoulder, then turned from the room to seek the child. Rory watched him go, marveling again at the unusual hobbit. Bilbo was twelve years he senior, and yet it was Rory who looked old and worn, even before the trauma of losing his sister. Bilbo was odd, but he was wise and kind. Rory hoped he could reach the child.

"Yes, read it aloud so they all can hear, Serry. Then we'll have a pipe and talk of other things. This day had been heavy enough."

⌂

Bilbo did not have to go far to find Drogo's son. Frodo was sitting on the step outside one of the lesser entrances, near Saradoc's family's quarters. Menegilda had set him there in the sun for some air, giving him a task of shelling peas to fill his hands and mind. The child had finished, but was staring at the bowl as if deep in thought. Bilbo sat down on the step next to him.

Frodo looked up, startled. "Excuse me. I did not see you, sir." Then he really saw who had sat down with him, and Bilbo barely caught the bowl before it overturned as the child threw himself into Bilbo's arms, suddenly weeping. He set the bowl aside carefully and hugged Frodo tight.

They did not speak, but merely sat together. Frodo stopped crying, accepting a handkerchief from his cousin to dry his eyes. Bilbo let the lad lean against him and think, since that was what he seemed to want to do. After a while, Frodo stirred. "Can we go somewhere, sir?"

"Anywhere you like, Frodo-lad."

"Will you take me to Girdley Island?"

Bilbo frowned. "That's a good ways away," and Frodo's face fell as he spoke, so he said added, "but if that's where you want to go, so be it. I have a cart ready. Let's tell your... aunt that we are going for a ride."

"All right, we can tell her that we're going... but not where," insisted Frodo. "It's a secret place..."

"Secrets, eh? Well, I can keep a secret. Pick up that bowl and come with me. We'll go after we get our coats."

**VII**  
**The Island**

They were riding within the hour. Frodo was a little surprised that they had let him go with Bilbo. He hadn't been allowed more than a few minutes alone for a week, and almost never outside. Someone was always watching him, as if he would suddenly break apart or melt if they took their eyes away.

Bilbo said nothing, just talking to the pony or humming softly. Rorimac had wanted him to say something to comfort the boy, but Bilbo couldn't see anything wrong with him. Surely, he was aggrieved—and who wouldn't be? He was pale and looked a little thin, but that, too, was normal. He was a light-skinned child and was likely off his feed about all that had happened. There didn't seem to be anything that Bilbo needed to say to Frodo. Perhaps it was Rory who had the trouble...

"Mr Bilbo, sir?"

Bilbo smiled down at the child. "Call me Uncle Bilbo if you want to, Frodo-lad. I am actually your cousin, but that it too bulky to say with every mouthful, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Can I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Where do people go when they die?"

Bilbo knew that Frodo was not speaking of interments and ashes. He pondered an answer, knotting the reins in his hands. "How old are you, Frodo?"

"Twelve, sir. Uncle."

"I see... well, you ask a difficult question of me, Frodo-lad, one that a hobbit your age wouldn't normally ask. And for all my years, I am not sure I have a firm answer. All I can tell you is what I think, and a few words I have learned from... other sources."

"Please, tell me what you think, sir, and what sources do you mean?"

"I have traveled far, and seen many people who are different than we hobbits. They all have different beliefs and customs. Hobbits generally believe that when a person dies, his soul becomes part of the earth, like his body."

"So there is nothing... no thoughts or dreams after we die? No pain?" The child's face was streaked with tears, but he was controlling himself. He wanted to hear these answers.

"I can't say for sure, Frodo. But I can tell you this," and Bilbo led the pony aside and halted him under a wide oak tree. He turned and looked Frodo in the face, wiping a tear away with his careful thumb. "I like the story the Elves tell about what happens to us when we leave the earth. Would you like to know what they say?" Frodo nodded slowly. "The Elves admit that they do not know all there is to know about we mortals and what happens to our souls. The Elves, you see, they never die but their spirits fly to the uttermost West, where after a while they can come back again to live on the earth. Elves aren't like you and me. We are mortal, and when we die we don't come back. We go westward, too, for a little while, in a separate place from where the Elves live. Then we go on, to another place outside of the Circle of the world, to dwell with Ilúvatar."

"Who is Ilúva-lúvatar?" asked Frodo, his head cocked with curiosity.

"He is the one that the Elves say created our world, through the Valar. They are his hands and eyes, and his tongue, toes, and tonsils, too." Bilbo smiled to show he was being a little silly, but was still in earnest. "Through them He made the world, and He made the Elves and us to live here. It is His gift to us."

Frodo thought for a while, and Bilbo clucked to the pony to get the cart moving again. "Why have I never heard of Illoover before?"

"'ehl-oovah-tar'. Hobbit don't normally know about him. I know about him from the Elves, because their lore goes back for many-many hundreds of thousands of years. Hobbit history doesn't reach that far yet."

Frodo accepted that. "Do you think that someday, after I am old and I die, I can see my parents again in this place were Ilúvatar lives? Is that possible?"

"My dear Frodo, I think that is exactly what _will_ happen. It certainly doesn't hurt to hope, does it? There are many folks I would like to see there, who have gone on without me. I am very old, you know! I have outlived almost all my family. Do you know how old I am?" Frodo shook his head 'no'. "I am ninety years old!"

Frodo whistled low. "You are very old! But you don't look that old! Master Rorimac looks older than you. Will I live to be that old?"

"It's possible. You are a Baggins, and we are a long-lived family, on our Tookish side. I'd say it is very likely you could live to be a hundred, at least!"

Frodo's smile faded a little. "I don't want to wait that long to see them, but I think it would be interesting, living for so many years."

They talked on about living and souls, and Bilbo told Frodo some more about Elves. Frodo's acceptance of his strange tales of 'outlandish folk', as other hobbits would phrase it, appealed to Bilbo. He was unused to being able to discuss this favourite subject without scorn or open denial. Frodo listened carefully, and Bilbo received the impression that he was memorizing every word.

"Now, you know that few other hobbits hold any of this lore as truth or important. You and I, we can discuss these things, but I wonder what your uncle and cousins would say if you told them about it."

Frodo snorted. "They wouldn't believe it. But I do. I want to meet an elf someday. Do you think I might? Someday, if I am good?"

"If you are good, and maybe if you aren't!" retorted Bilbo, gently prodding him in the ribs with his elbow. Frodo giggled. "I think it is high time to stop for a bite to eat. What say you, Frodo Baggins?"

"Not yet! We're almost to Stonebow Bridge. Let's eat on the island. Can we, s... Uncle?"

"If we can find a boat. I can't swim to the island! You don't mind riding in a boat, do you, Frodo?" Bilbo asked hesitantly.

Frodo shook his head briefly. "I would be more afraid of swimming. I know how, but..." His young face grew a little bleak. "_Why_ didn't _they _swim?"

Bilbo took both reins in one hand, and placed his arm around Frodo's shoulders. "Rivers are different than creeks and pools. That water looks slow, but it is strong and deep." The bleak look on Frodo's face deepened, so Bilbo sought about for something to cheer the lad a bit.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I rescued thirteen dwarves from the dungeons of the Wood Elf kingdom? I nearly drowned myself, that day..." and Bilbo launched into the tale. Frodo listened to him and was soon riveted to his words. The last miles flew by, and soon they were riding right along the river, the bridge visible just ahead.

"Can we ride across? Just for a minute?" Frodo asked. Bilbo laughed and complied. The wheels of their cart clacked on the stone arches that spanned the wide river in two graceful leaps. They paused on the Shire side, getting down from the cart to feel the grass on their toes. Then they rode back to the Buckland side and a little ways further upriver, where a small dock was built.

In the center of the river swam a thick grove of trees. This was Girdley Island, once just a sandbar in the wide river, but it had grown as the river had pushed more soil up and trees had blown their seeds there—and grass and flowers, too—for years and years until it looked like a garden in the middle of the river; a green jewel surrounded by brown waters. There seemed to be a thousand birds nesting, flying about, and swimming in the water all around it.

Frodo stared at it, thinking that he understood why it had been such a special place to his parents. It was like a little bit of wild woods, cut off from everything; a pocket-sized adventure.

Bilbo was speaking to a hobbit that kept boats on the riverbank. When Frodo heard his father's name on the stranger's lips, he focused his attention on their words:

"... to cross, sir. Have to make my own way, you know! These boats aren't free to build!"

"Of course. A penny to cross and back for two, then. I would pay as much to make sure we arrived safely. I am no boatman!"

"No, sir, I think not," said the hobbit, eyeing Bilbo's rich clothes. "You look like you are not from round here at all. Visiting from the Shire?"

"Yes. Bilbo Baggins is my name, and this is..."

"Baggins? My goodness, you must have heard about the accident, then!" The hobbit was suddenly anxiously excited, and Bilbo could not get a word in edgewise. "Poor Mr Drogo Baggins and his wife, sir! I saw them the very night they say they were drowned, I did!"

Bilbo harked to him hard. "Did you now?"

"Aye, they came boating up the river, as was their habit. Loved to visit the island, they did. He was a real boatman, that one, for all he was a Baggins. Handled a boat just like a Brandybuck! I tell ye," said the hobbit, in a loud whisper, "whatever tipped that boat, you can wager if anyone could have survived it, it would have been Drogo! It is a loss, sir! A terrible loss!" The hobbit then espied Frodo, listening intently.

"Who's this wisp of a lad, then? Your boy, Mr Baggins?"

"My name is Frodo Baggins," said Frodo proudly. "Drogo was my father."

There was no talk of pennies for passage then. The hobbit bowed low to Frodo and offered to take him and Bilbo across right then, if they were willing. They were, and soon they were standing in the middle of a miniature forest, alive with singing birds and bedecked with summer blooms.

Frodo walked around the place, enchanted by the beauty that surrounded him. Not only the fresh unspoiled grass and trees, and the soft air and sounds of the river nearby, but the fact that this was a place his parents had loved, and they wanted to share it with him. Standing there, with the sun dappling through the trees and the crack of bird's wings snapping in the air, Frodo felt again the love that his parents had given him. It was inside of him, and now he knew how to find it, and let it out.

He walked back to where Bilbo was talking softly with the boathobbit, and he took his cousin's hand.

Bilbo smile at him and squeezed his hand. "How about that bite to eat, eh? This looks like a good place for a picnic."

Frodo smiled, looking around again. "Yes, this is a special place."

They set out a meal from Bilbo's back, which Menegilda had prepared for them, and shared it out generously with their boatman. That hobbit produced a wooden vessel that he had toted along. He handed it to Bilbo, who broke the seal and inhaled a little whiff of steam. "Ahh! Still warm!" He poured some of the fragrant beverage into two mugs, but hesitated over the third. "Frodo, would you rather have some water than coffee?"

Frodo shook his head. "I'll have some coffee. I don't like the taste, but it reminds me of Dada. It doesn't hurt as much to think about him here."

After their meal, they prepared to go. There was still a ride back to Brandyhall, and the sun was westering already. Frodo turned and took one last look at the island before stepping into the boat.

The hobbit poled them back to the shore skillfully. Frodo arrived on the bank without getting so much as a toe wet. "Thank you, mister... er," he stumbled, realizing he had not heard the hobbit's name.

"Girdley. My name is Girdley, young master Baggins."

"Does the island belong to you, then, sir?" asked Frodo, returning his bow.

"No, no!" laughed the hobbit. "If anything, it's the other way 'round! My folks were happy to visit there, too. They named me after the island!"

Frodo smiled and thanked the hobbit, Mr Girdley, who said he could come back anytime and he would be happy to take him across to visit the island. Bilbo insisted he accept the penny, for his children, and then they were back on the road and riding to Bucklebury.

Frodo was silent, remembering the last waggon journey he had taken on this road, seeming so long ago. He felt a little pain and shed a tear, but his heart was still warm and the sun was on his face. He sat beside Bilbo and watched the brown waters of the Brandywine flow past, never running out, going on down to wind toward the Sea at last.


	16. Ch 16 Scary Hills

**Chapter 15: Scary Hills  
**_in four parts_

**I  
Dragon Hunters**

Frodo climbed to the top of the hill, pausing at the crest to catch his breath and let the others catch him. The slope was very steep, but the view afforded a fine vista of Northfarthing, stretching out seeming for leagues before the eyes, a rippling quilt of vineyards and square, furrowed gardens like roughly woven patches. Here and there broad bands of oak trees reached, looking like mere bushes in the distance. Frodo shaded his eyes and drank the view.

Merry and Sam were coming along, toiling up the hill, led by the eager young Peregrin. Frodo smiled to see him scrambling up the rise, his hair full of sunlight and his face with laughter. It had been a bit of an argument, persuading Eglantine to let her precious child go with his older cousins on this camping trip. Listening to her, one would think Pippin was made out of delicate porcelain or spun sugar. True, he had been prone to childhood illnesses, but for the past years he had grown into a healthy young hobbit, as robust and energetic as one could hope. Frodo thought this excursion would be good for him, too. Fresh air and good company, and no adults fussing or worrying over him.

Pippin charged up the hill, headstrong as a bull. Should he slip and fall back (as he was bound to, considering his haste) Merry would be there to catch him with strong arms (again). The child was ungraceful, indefatigable, and indestructible.

"Wait, Cousin Frodo!" the lad panted, grabbing handfuls of grass to pull himself up. He collapsed on the ground at Frodo's feet, not too winded to emit a giggle. "You climb too fast!"

Frodo squatted and brought out a handkerchief, which he unfolded deliberately and flapped it in Pippin's face. "Maybe your legs are too short!" he retorted merrily.

Pippin caught the handkerchief and proudly exclaimed, "No they aren't! My legs are exactly the right length... just long enough to touch the ground!" Frodo laughed and sat down next to him, waiting for the rest of the party.

It was a beautiful day, perfect for walking. The sun was warm and the wind just enough to cool the face. Frodo stretched out his legs and lay back with a sigh. He braced himself and was ready when Pippin jumped on him. He rolled over with the younger hobbit and tickled him without mercy. Pippin squealed happily. "Merry! Merry... hurry! Frodo's trying to kill me!" He laughed harder as Frodo tickled his ears.

"He will just help me by holding you down, Peregrin! When he gets up here, I will let Merry take a turn!"

"Nooo!" Pippin rolled away and sat up, puffing. Frodo laughed again and sat back.

Merry and Sam arrived at last, lugging their packs. "Oh, it is easy to climb when you don't have to carry anything!" Merry said with a grin, tossing his gear down and throwing himself on the grass. "I wish I had half your energy, Pip." Sam set his pack down carefully and accepted a flask of water from Frodo with a nod of thanks.

"Cousin Frodo carried his pack and he beat me to the top," Peregrin said slyly, giggling and tucking his belly out to imitate Merry's proud paunch.

Merry took a playful, half-hearted swat at him, but caught the water bottle that Sam held out to him instead. "Cousin Frodo is used to such activity. I'll bet there isn't a square mile of the Four Farthings that he has not yet walked through. I prefer gentler pastimes; a couple of good suppers, a pipe by the front porch, a walk by the river. I am beginning to see Cousin Bilbo's point, quite: Adventures make one late for supper!"

"Late for lunchtime, at any rate. While you lot take a rest, I shall throw together something for us." Frodo reached for his pack and shared out some bread, cheese, and fruit.

Merry stood up and appraised the view after he had eaten his share. "Well, it is very pretty, Frodo, but please don't tell me I climbed this mountain for only the scenery!"

"No, not completely," Frodo chuckled. "This is the beginning of the hills of Scary. The quarry is not far from here. We will pass it on our way to our campsite." Frodo's face split slowly in a sly grin, "That is, unless you _don't want_ to see a dragon made of stone."

"A what?!?" exclaimed the three hobbits, staring at Frodo with disbelief.

Frodo let his smile fade, as if crestfallen. "Oh, well... never mind... we can go back to Hobbiton whenever you are ready..."

"You're making that up, right, Frodo? A _real_ dragon?"

"Made out of stone… or turned _into_ stone by magic?"

"I didn't know there were dragons in the Shire! Is it _safe?_"

"Quite safe, my dear hobbits," Frodo assured them. "Now pick up your packs and your selves, for if we are to reach our goal by nightfall we must put a good foot under us!"

And so the hobbits went, brushing their feet in the thick grass that covered the head of the round hill. Ahead, in the distance, many hills rose; blue-purple-gray. Frodo reassured his companions that they would not be required to climb anymore. Actually, those hills were not much larger or steeper than the one they had already scaled, but far off and isolated by farm plots and fences, Frodo imagined they looked as steep and inscalable as the Misty Mountains that grew up in his dreams.

Here and there through the grasses, the ground began to show patches of red-coloured earth. Soon the walking hobbits began to pass rocks scattered about, and were eventually threading through towering up-thrusts of stone and washed-out gullies. Their eyes played tricks upon the stones and they began to see images in the weirdly shaped monoliths, such as the wandering mind may pick out shapes in the clouds on a lazy May afternoon before a spring rainstorm.

Pippin was running to and fro, across the path and ahead, investigating the patches of flowers and curious rocks. Sam kept a wary eye on him, but when Frodo told him Pippin was perfectly safe, he turned his fretting on other things.

"Do you think the weather will hold, Mr Frodo? Will there be wood enough for a good fire at this camping-spot, sir? I could gather some as we walk. Are you sure we have plenty of food, Mr Frodo? That young cousin of yours... I could do without a second supper, myself."

Frodo just smiled at him each time and said, "Everything will be fine, Sam. Don't worry!" They passed a field dusted with yellow-golden flowers. Frodo grabbed Sam's arm and pointed, "Look over there! Those are plants that the Elves use in some of their cooking. Bilbo told me about it. They use the pollen of those yellow flowers as a spice. A very delicate flavour it adds, we have found." Frodo knew that Sam would be keen on it, if it was about cooking and there were Elves involved.

Sam forgot his worries for a while, plucking up a yellow blossom and nibbling on the petals. He made a face.

"No, Sam... the pollen, not the petals!" Frodo laughed. Sam frowned at the flower, but he wrapped it in a handkerchief and stuck it in his pocket.

Pippin came running up, breathless. "Frodo," he gulped, "I found some dragon tracks!"

Frodo chuckled and looked around, as if scanning the skies for large, airborne reptiles. "Yes, we are getting close now. Over there are the quarries," he pointed toward a steep cutting in the hills, and a sliver of deep blue water that shone in the cleft of the valley. "Our campsite is beyond there, and we will reach it easily before dusk… providing we aren't eaten by the dragon first." Frodo kept his smile on and his friends were not frightened that he would lead them to danger, but were excited and curious at what his 'stone dragon' might be all about. Only Pippin seemed to think it was a real dragon.

"What do stone dragons eat, Frodo? Not hobbits?" he asked nervously.

"No, Pippin, I was only joking. Stone dragons don't eat hobbits, or anything. No more questions! You shall see when you see. Let's go!"

**II**  
**Illusions**

The hobbits walked along, not really hurrying, for Frodo promised them that they had plenty of time before sun-down to reach their goal. Frodo led them right to the edge of the Quarry, where the stone was cut away sharply and far below lay a pool of dark water, utterly still in the windless afternoon.

"How deep is it?" asked Pippin, barely stepping close enough to peer over the edge. Like most hobbits, he did not care for heights, and he didn't trust the ground near the edge of the cliff. Still, being a curious young hobbit and fearing the teasing of his mates, he bravely stood and looked down. He stood very close to his cousin Frodo, just in case a wind came up and tried to blow him over.

"I am not sure, Pippin," answered Frodo. He pointed out to the other hobbits where the holes had been bored, to allow water into the cracks. He explained how when winter came, the water would freeze and cause the cracks to widen, and blocks of stone would come loose more easily. They were then cut down by stonemasons into bricks, or flags, for building stone houses or reinforcing a burrow to keep dry and warm. Frodo pointed to the side of the quarry, where a road wound away toward the east. "They take the larger stones down by barge. How they get those big rocks to float..."

"By road and river! Are you telling me we could have ridden this far by pony or trap?" Merry exclaimed, as if annoyed. "I could have gotten here in a few hours ease, and you had us climb this mountain by foot! Frodo, you have been living among Westfarthingers for too long! You do everything the hard way!"

Frodo laughed, and stooped to pick up a stone. He tossed it as far out over the cliff as he could, watching the tiny ring appear as it struck the still water. Merry and Pippin both copied his action, seeing who could throw the farthest. Sam stayed back from the edge. He hated looking down from a height, and felt no shame in saying so.

They went on their way, stepping carefully to avoid tripping in the holes. Pippin sniffed the air, wondering when they would smell smoke from the dragon's fiery breath. He found a couple more puddles that looked like they might have been dragon tracks, but when he pointed them out to Frodo, his cousin merely smiled and said that the dragon didn't usually travel very far these days, and spent most of his time guarding his lair. Peregrin shivered with delighted terror.

They circled the quarry lake and reached a gentle slope that led down toward a friendly band of trees. Frodo led them, but looked over his shoulder occasionally and scanned the hilltops. Every so often he did this, until all of his friends were suddenly possessed of a feeling that they were being followed or watched.

"What is it, Mr Frodo?" asked Sam, trotting at his master's side. He was fingering the handle of his frying pan that hung from his pack.

Frodo smiled at him and clapped him on the back. "You'll need a bigger pan if you plan to cook the dragon, Sam. I am just making sure we are going the right way. We will be at our campsite soon, and we shall see our rocky friend shortly. Don't be afraid! If I thought there was danger, I would not have brought you all here."

"Doesn't mean you wouldn't have come yourself, Frodo," quipped Merry. He as unnerved also, but he shook off the feeling. "You are pulling my bracers, Baggins. If there is a dragon in these hills, I will eat him! Admit you were having us on! Go ahead... confess!"

Frodo turned back and smiled into Merry's disbelief. "Well, see for yourself," he said, and pointed upward.

The three hobbits turned to where he pointed, unconsciously stepping closer together. Away where Frodo was pointing could be seen the weird stone columns that they had walked through, a rough line on the edge of the quarry cliff.

Pippin stood behind Merry and peeked around him. "Where, Frodo? I don't see a dragon."

Frodo knelt and called Pippin to him. He stood the little hobbit in front of him and pointed, lining up his eye with his finger. "There... you can see his boney spine, and there are his ears. Those two great dark caves are his nostrils, and below his mouth. See his teeth? Now, when the sun falls just a fraction more..." and suddenly the cliff face was lit by the last gleaming of the sun, now sinking behind the trees,"...there! See how the quartz glows like fiery eyes?"

Pippin breathed in wonder, and Merry and Sam saw also, for the landscape was lit up with light and cut with dark shadows of the trees and rocky columns which fell on the cliff-face. The dragon appeared, just shapes on the stone that could only be seen at that moment, when the shadows were cast by a dying sun. They all watched speechless until the light faded, and the dragon disappeared like smoke on the breeze.

"That was wonderful, Frodo!" Pippin exclaimed, shivering in Frodo's arms. "Like magic! How did you find it?"

Frodo wrapped his cloak around Pippin, standing up and taking his hand. "Bilbo showed me. He found it long ago, and he walked me up here, just like I did you and Merry and Sam today, and I did not believe him for an instant while he spoke of a dragon made of stone, just as none of you believed me." Merry and Sam both laughed softly, their cheeks reddened that Frodo had recognized their doubt.

"It is all right!" Frodo laughed, too. "I thought he was quite as mad as everyone had said, until I saw the dragon's eyes light in the sun. After that day, I never doubted his word."

"I believed you, Frodo," said Pippin, grinning up at his cousin. Frodo smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

"Well, if this has been a lesson is trust, then you have it now, or will," said Merry, gripping his cousin's shoulder warmly, "if this perfect campsite that you have spoken of is as comfortable and close as you say. I am quite worn out and hungry, and if that dragon had not been made of stone, I _**would**_ _have_ eaten him!"

Frodo bowed and led the way. Only a few paces off, behind a wide oak tree, they found a glade with thick, warm grass, a small clear stream, and a pile of wood, already cut and stacked.

"All right, Frodo; I will never doubt you again." Merry settled down against the tree with a sigh. "Of course, now I shall be ever the brunt of your inane practical jokes, but if you reward me with such kindnesses, I will endure them without complaint!"

Frodo laughed and began to build a fire. "I can't say I won't enjoy not having to listen to you complain, dear cousin," he said slyly, grinning at Merry. "but I would not turn so on you. Mirth we shall have, but not at one another's expense. Surely, I will not have to do your thinking for you from now on!"

"No, indeed," returned Merry. He had enjoyed the joke and the hike, even for all of his blustering and moaning. He felt that Frodo had shared a special thing with him, and that now they all shared a secret.

For a moment, Merry considered telling Frodo about his and Sam's investigations, but somehow he felt the time was not right. He wasn't really sure how he could justify spying on Bilbo the way he and Sam had done. Years ago, it could have been excused by simple childish curiosity, but now...

Now was just not the time.

When Frodo was turned away, searching his pack, Merry looked across the campfire and met Sam's eyes. He knew that Sam was thinking a similar thing. Both hobbits shook their heads, and then relaxed noticeably.

"What's for supper, Frodo?" asked Peregrin, peeking into the pack. "I am awful hungry." Frodo gave him an apple to keep him busy while he and Sam cooked sausages, mushrooms, and potatoes for their meal.

"I know you are all right whenever I hear you say that, Pippin," said Merry, tousling his little cousin's hair affectionately. Pippin ducked under his hand, but smiled around his apple. "I could get used to this walking about, Frodo. There are so many interesting things to see in the Shire. Still, I am glad to be a Bucklander."

"Why is that, Merry?" asked Pippin.

Frodo answered for Merry, for he knew that same feeling in his heart. "It is strange to live so far away from the Brandywine River, and the High Hay is like protective arms, keeping you safe. The Shire seems so wide open and exposed, when you first come here. It takes some getting used to. I was a little afraid of it when Bilbo first brought me to Hobbiton, until I learned more about its ways and lands. I hope you do come walking with me more often, Merry. We are too young to live in a small place."

Merry got out his pipe, which he never traveled without, and he let Sam light it with a burning twig. Puffing, he expelled a smoke-ring and said to Frodo as it drifted and broke apart slowly, "I shall eagerly share in all your adventures, Frodo Baggins! Just try to leave me behind!" And he winked at Sam.

**III**  
**The Gift**

Evening fell swiftly. The hobbits sang songs to the growing night, their campfire shining out like a star. As they devoured their meal with gusto, Merry commented that this food, cooked over an open fire, seemed to taste better even than his last birthday feast., a comment that caused Sam to beam happily.

Their laughter rang out in the darkness and was brought back to them by the echoing cliffs and the fathomless pool of the Quarry. The sky was deep and clear, and the stars seemed to crowd each other in the heavens. The Moon had sunk early, chasing the Sun to her rest, leaving the realm of the sky unguarded.

This was a special night, and one of the reasons Frodo had brought his friends so far away from their homes; on this night of no-moon, the stars did a dance in the sky and seemed to fall to the earth. Frodo had told Merry and Sam of it, and they wanted to see this strange event for themselves. So the hobbits laid out their blankets in a circle, laying with their heads together and counting the streaks of light that cut the velvet night in unpredictable slashes.

"Are the stars _really_ falling, Frodo?" asked Pippin. The young hobbit was fighting to stay awake with his older cousins and Sam. He was anxious that something interesting or wondrous might happen if he should close his eyes.

Frodo lay with an arm behind his head, smoking his pipe. He answered truthfully, "I don't know, Pip. I see the burning sparks fall frequently, though never so often as they fall on this night of the year. There never seems to be any lack of stars... maybe they are like apples falling from the trees in the wind."

"The trees just grow more apples, right?" Pippin seemed pleased with this explanation.

"I think that they are petals that fall from the flowers in heaven's field," Sam said softly.

Frodo sat up and looked toward him in surprise. "That is very poetic, Sam! What a lovely idea." The darkness hid Sam's blush from his friend's eyes.

Merry raises his hand, peering through his splayed fingers at the points of light. "I think they are little holes in a vast cloak that the sun draws over and shines through, like lamplight through a lace curtain, eh?"

"You may be right, too, Merry."

They watched in silence for a time. Frodo raised his head and saw that Pippin had finally fallen asleep. Stealthily, Sam covered the young one with an extra blanket.

Frodo cleaned his pipe and repacked it, rising to light it with a straw from the glowing coals of their campfire. He carefully added another block of wood, trying not to stir up the coals. In spite of his caution, sparks climbed into the air as the wood caught fire, sending small red stars shooting heavenward as if to meet those that were descending. Frodo sat and watched, both to make sure that no tree or grass was scorched and to marvel at the wondrous beauty of it all.

Frodo expected that Sam and Merry were asleep by now; he had sat up for a long hour, just smoking and watching. He knocked the char from his pipe and stood up, dusting his seat to prepare himself for the bedroll, but he stopped in mid-motion, listening.

A thin strain of music came to his sharp ears. The sound came from the direction of the quarry, but Frodo realized it was but an echo from the water. He turned and looked to the trees, his heart beating rapidly in excitement. "Elves!" He glanced back at his motionless companions. They would sleep on and never know he had slipped away for a moment...

... But even as he heard voices join the music, he sat back down beside the fire with a sigh. He could not answer their call, no matter how much he wished to see them. He was responsible for his friends' safety. He contented himself with listening, smiling toward the distant glowing lights moving like fireflies through the trees.

The Elf was standing before him for many moments before Frodo realized that he wasn't imagining him. Frodo started and climbed hastily to his feet, offering a bow to his unexpected guest.

"_Mae govannen!_" the Elf returned his bow. Tall and slender, with hair as dark as ink on paper, the Elf's fair face seemed to shine in the low light of the campfire. "_N-yes i vedui lúmenn imbe roman._"(It is but the last hour before sunrise) he said, "Long you have sat, making clouds of your breath, _perian._ How is this done? The season of cold is far off yet." The Elf knelt and held out his hand, curiosity in his features. Frodo laid his pipe across the long white fingers.

The Elf examined the pipe with great interest, sniffing the bowl and caressing the long thin stem. He seemed fascinated by the little teeth-marks that Frodo had left on the mouthpiece. He sat down, cross-legged on the grass beside the fire, and dug into his belt pouch. A small, sharp knife he withdrew, and with a glance at Frodo for permission he began to carve a delicate design on the plain wood.

When he handed the thing back, Frodo accepted it with awe. He turned it over and over in his hands. "This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he exclaimed, "and I have had it for many years!"

The Elf rose and bowed. "It is a gift to me that you permitted it. Far I have traveled and much have I seen, but still my heart takes pleasure in the adorning of features on wood. This love I will carry with me ever, even when I am carried far from this land. What gift may I offer to repay you?"

Frodo replied hastily, "Repay me? It is you who have given me a gift! The work of your hands and the sound of your voice will reward me all the days of my life!"

The Elf looked sadly upon Frodo. "A laurel too brief for one such as you. There must be something I can offer... this gulf of debt cannot stand between us, for even the great sea cannot fill it. Name your gift."

Frodo thought for a moment, then he smiled. "I would treasure the gift of your name, good Elf."

"Taurlindë," the Elf answered. "It means 'singer of wood', for my love of carving." Taurlindë handed Frodo his carving tool. "Accept this also as a gift," he said.

Frodo refused. "No indeed, my good Taurlindë! If you are setting forth from Middle-earth as you say, then you will have need of your carving knife! I could no more take it from you than I could admire a bird in flight, and then take its wings away!"

The Elf smiled. "Now you have given me another gift, of sweet words. The longer I stay, the more I shall owe you! Come, there must be something you wish to have or know..."

"Ah! There is something; something my friends and I were discussing this very night. Could you tell me, what are the stars, and why do they fall?"

Taurlindë smiled. He touched his forehead in a salute, then sat back on his heels and began:

"This I learned of my Lord the Edain; that the greater stars were made by Varda against the coming of the Firstborn Children. She went forth to the top of the Holy Mountain and there she beheld the darkness over Middle-earth beneath the innumerable stars, far and faint. She then wrought a great labour, taking dews that had been gathered from the Tree of Silver and with them she made new stars and brighter, to set amid the firmament for us to behold. That is why we call her Tintallë the Kindler, and Elen-tári Queen of the Stars. The Grey Elves call her Elbereth, and raise many songs to her praise. She wrought Carnil and Luinil, Nénar and Lumbar, Alcarinquë and Elemmírë. She gathered together clusters of stars and set as signs in the heavens: Wilwarin, Telumendil, Sonorúmë, and Ararrím; and Menelmacar with his shining belt, that forebodes the Last Battle that shall be at the end of days." The Elf looked upon the hobbit with his eyes shining with the stars he described and Frodo held his breath in wonder, listening with his whole heart. "The stars that fall are but small specks of dust, scattered in the airs by the great working of the making of Eä. They signal that of everything there is an end to life. We elves regard it as a sign of great hope."

Taurlindë then stood, and he regarded Frodo for a long moment, as if to carve his features in the grain of his memory, before disappearing into the trees where the lights of distant lamps and music had long ago faded. Frodo sat for a while, Taurlindë's gift echoing in his mind.

There by the dying fire, the Sun found him that morning, asleep and draped over with a blanket by his friend. Merry had heard everything, lying awake but silent, frightened and awed by the company his cousin kept.

_  
The text about the creation of the greater stars and their names is borrowed from the Silmarillion (paraphrased by me), with all respect and thanks to Prof T. No mention was made by him (that I have found) involving meteorites or such phenomena, so that part is strictly the detritus of my own mind._

**IV  
Beyond the Shire**

The smell of food and sounds of movement nearby roused Frodo. The sun had long ago climbed the horizon to peer down through the trees at him. He remained still, wrapped in his blanket and blinked at the azure sky, savouring the memory of the long night.

"Wake up, Mr Frodo!" Sam repeated cheerfully, fussing over the campfire. "You'll miss your second breakfast as well, and that hungry little cousin of yours'll leave nothing of the meal for you."

"How can I miss second breakfast if I haven't had my first one yet?" asked Frodo, wondering. He sat up and stretched. Sam handed him a clean cloth and nodded toward the quarry lake.

"I'd've woke you sooner, sir, but Mr Merry said to let you sleep. He's down that way with Master Peregrin, skippin' stones. Go and have a wash and the food'll be ready when you come back."

Frodo obeyed gratefully. He rolled out of the blankets and plodded down to the water's edge, feeling as though he were still half-asleep. The water was cold and clear, and it chased away the last of his sleepiness as he splashed his face and head.

"High time you were up and about, Frodo!" said Merry, coming up behind him. Pippin was trotting at his side. Both had their arms loaded with dry wood.

"You slept right through breakfast, Frodo," said Pippin. "Merry said if you slept through second breakfast as well, we were going to use this wood to build a fire in your bedroll!" The young Took chuckled.

"Did he now?" said Frodo, and he grinned and flicked his dripping hair at them, showering them with droplets of water. Pippin complained loudly and dropped his firewood. "HE said it! I was just telling you..."

Merry laughed and gently tapped Peregrin's seat with his foot. "Tattle-tale!"

"Well, you've gathered more than enough wood to roast one weary hobbit!" exclaimed Frodo, helping Pippin re-collect the wood. They began to walk back to their camp.

"Sam said we should leave the camp as much like we found it. It seems likely that we'll be back again." Merry's eyes met Frodo's briefly, and his cousin's smile and his twinkling eye made Frodo guess that something other than camping or hiking was on Merry's mind. Thinking to himself that he would have to ask discretely about what, Frodo merely returned his smile and nodded.

Breakfast was ready, as Sam had promised, and Frodo ate as if he had more than just one meal to make up for. Since they were planning on being back in Bucklebury by nightfall, Sam had reserved only enough food for lunch, with a snack for the road. Everything else had gone into the pot, and the four hobbits dutifully built up their strength for the long walk to the river.

"Did mum and dad really give permission for you to take me on a boat-ride, cousin Frodo?" Pippin asked again, for perhaps the fifth time since the outing had begun.

Frodo reassured him again. "Yes, Pippin. We will be in the hands of a very experienced river captain, Mr Girdley, and he will take us from Stonebow to Bucklebury by boat. We just have to get there, and that will be a bit of a walk east. We'll begin as soon as we put out the fire and gather our things. Tonight we will sit with Master Rorimac at table!"

"I wish we could stay longer!" Pippin said, even as he hastened to help repack. Outings with his cousins were rare treats for him, but dinner in Brandy Hall was something to look forward to, also.

"Well, we have a long ride still ahead of us, when Bilbo gets to Buckland tomorrow to fetch us home. We still shall have plenty of time for songs and tales before we deliver you home in Tuckborough."

"I know, Frodo. I just don't want it to end. I wish we could go on a real adventure!"

Merry shouldered his pack and reaching out, he tousled Pippin's hair. "Camping with you is a real adventure!"

Pippin ducked under his hand, dancing away with a laugh. He walked close to Frodo, trotting even though his cousin walked slowly so he could keep up easily. "What is beyond the borders of the Shire, Frodo?"

"White nothingness, if you go by what Shire maps show," said Frodo. He had seen only one map that showed lands outside of the Shire, and it had been mostly of mountains and the forest to the East. Frodo told his young cousin about it, aware that Sam and Merry were listening closely. "There isn't much detail on that old map. It is mostly of the paths of Mirkwood and the approaches of Lonely Mountain. There's a fiery red dragon drawn over the top of the map. It always gives me a shiver looking at it, even though I know Smaug is dead."

"Was Smaug_ really_ real, Frodo?" asked Pippin. His face was creased with anxiety, as only the very young can worry about such things. "I know Uncle Bilbo said it was so, but Father told me there were no more dragons, and I think he doesn't believe in them."

Frodo laid an arm gently across Pippin's shoulders. "Whether he was real or not, Smaug is dead, and he was the last dragon, except for our secret dragon, over there," Frodo nodded toward the Quarry. Pippin giggled. "So both your dad and Bilbo are right. And remember, just because someone doesn't believe in something, that doesn't make it less real to someone else. You have to ask yourself, 'What do I believe?' Personally, I think that only someone who believes in dragons can see Stony. Otherwise, when you look, you would see only rock and shadows."

Pippin walked for a while in silence, digesting what Frodo had said. The others began to sing a walking song, its lilting melody giving lightness to the feet and heart. Pippin laid aside the matter. It was too beautiful a day to brood on reality. He joined the singing:

_"The Road goes ever on and on  
Down from the door where it began…"_

They stopped only for a light lunch and consumed their snack on the trail, and so the came to the bridge at Stonebow just after the second hour of noon. They walked across the bridge and looked down at the brown water.

Pippin dropped a stone over the rail and watched it disappear with a small splash. He looked up and saw the green island, thick with trees and noisy with birds. "Frodo, can we go there today?" he asked.

Frodo was looking at the island, a distant smile on his lips that looked more sad than happy. "Not today, Pip. Maybe sometime soon... another adventure for another day."

"Good! Let's find this boat and get to Merry's house. I am hungry!" The hobbits laughed.

⌂

Mr Girdley was ready for them. A large raft was moored just north of the bridge, and on it was Mr Girdley, taking a spot of early tea while he waited for his charter.

"G'day to you, young sirs! Master Baggins, a pleasure to see you again! Is this the freight you'd have me float down the Brandywine today? Bring them aboard! There's room to spare. How about a spot of tea before we get started?"

Pippin eagerly jumped onto the raft, followed by Merry, who laughed at his young cousin's excitement. He was accustomed to such travel, living right next to the River as he did, but he never took it for granted. He sternly began to inform Pippin of how he should behave while on the raft, and warned him of the dangers so that he would be safe. Pippin listened and obeyed, but he was still bouncing a little when sat down on the bales tied to the center of the raft. Mr Girdley gave them each a cream tart and a mug of tea.

Frodo tossed his pack to Merry, who caught it deftly. Sam was still ashore, and by the whiteness around his eyes, he looked as if he would prefer to stay there. Frodo nodded toward the raft. "Come on, Sam. It is a large raft and the water is slow. You'll be just fine."

"Mr Frodo, I never have learned to swim. Maybe I should just walk to Bucklebury..."

"If you don't want to take the raft, Sam, I shall pay one of the hobbits here to drive you by carriage. But I would rather you came with us. Rivers can be dangerous, but they are also useful and beautiful. Won't you try just once? I promise that you will come to no harm, and that I will protect you."

Sam looked Frodo in the eye, and Frodo was struck by how serious a youth Samwise was. He was the same age as Merry, and yet seemed so much more mature is some ways. Right now, he looked very young and unsure. But, he nodded and boarded the raft, taking a seat near the center of the large craft and a good hold of a thick rope that secured the freight in place. Frodo smiled at him and offered a short bow to their captain.

"All aboard? We're off, then!" Mr Girdley cast off the ropes that tethered them to the shore, and the large square raft began to drift down the river. The hobbit used a long pole to push off from the shallow bars of sand that caught them occasionally, and he kept the raft headed downstream with a simple rudder built onto one corner of the craft.

They didn't seem to be moving very quickly at all, but very soon it seemed, the river swept them to Bucklebury, and Merry was throwing a line to the hobbits ashore to secure them, calling out greeting to friends he knew. The sun was only just beginning to singe the tops of the trees on their left.

They stepped off of the raft, bowing their thanks to Mr Girdley. The hobbit waved at them, then signaled that the ropes should be cast off again. He had deliveries to make further south that day, but he was pleased to have seen his young friend Frodo that day. He poled away, singing a river song that carried over the water.

"Well, Sam!" said Frodo, "Here we are, safe and sound. Have you changed your opinion of boats at all?"

"Well, sir, you'll accept my thanks and forgive me for saying so, but I much prefer to keep my feet on the ground. But I will give you this; the river is much faster than walking."

"Good enough, Sam! Let's get inside and find some food! I am as hungry as three trolls, I am! We best hurry, for Peregrin and Meriadoc have preceded us, and they may clear the pantry before we get so much as a crust of bread!" He clapped his friend on the back and steered him toward Brandy Hall. The sun sank golden into the green hills, casting shadows of dreams across the paths of Frodo and Sam.


	17. Ch 17 Shire Shenanigans

**Chapter 16  
**_in five parts_

**I**

**The Proposition**

Bilbo yawned and waved away the third slice of cake that Frodo was offering him. Not even the coffee he had drunk for after-dinner had done ought to keep him wakeful. "It's no use, lad... I am as tired as tired! I am going to bed before I fall asleep in this chair." The older hobbit stood up and patted his nephew on the shoulder. "Leave the supper dishes and I will clean them up tomorrow. Go on with you and enjoy the evening. I imagine everyone is gathered down at the Dragon by now."

"It won't be the same without you," said Frodo, following Bilbo to his room. He made sure the hearth had enough wood on it to keep his uncle warm through the night. These early autumn days had cooled considerably. Already the late-blooming flowers had been bitten by frost once or twice.

"You'll manage, dear boy," Bilbo said fondly, settling into his warm bed and falling asleep almost instantly. Frodo tucked the blankets around the old hobbit snuggly and extinguished the candle with careful fingers, closing the door softly behind him.

It had been a busy day for both hobbits, the latest in a long line of busy days that had seemed to be gaining momentum throughout the summer. Bilbo was making endless plans for the upcoming Birthday Party, now mere weeks away, and a steady stream of messengers were coming and going from Bag End. Deliveries from far beyond the Shire's borders came trundling up the Hill, in waggons driven by Dwarves or Men from distant lands. All the spare rooms and closets were stuffed with these mysterious deliveries, and Frodo and Bilbo kept the curtains drawn tight to keep the neighbours from peeking in, their curiosity growing more irresistible with every passing day until all pretense of respect for the Baggins' privacy had been abandoned. Frodo had caught several pressing their noses against the glass, trying to see inside, and Sam was constantly shooing hobbit-fry out of the garden. The doors were kept locked even during the day.

Bilbo just laughed when he heard about these incidents, and he answered all questions put to him by the curious with, "You shall see when you see!", and a wink and a nod. Interest was driven to ecstatic proportions, and everyone was looking forward to the Party.

Frodo was looking forward to it as well, but with both excitement and reluctance. He was pleased that he would be 33 and could now demand to be treated as the mature hobbit he felt that he had become. And yet he did not want the day to arrive, because he knew that it would mean that he would lose Bilbo's guidance and companionship, and he had become increasingly aware of how much he had come to love the old hobbit. In spite of all the preparations, he hoped that Bilbo would reconsider and stay with him in the Shire.

He tidied up the kitchen (disregarding Bilbo's instructions) and banked the fire. When he opened the front door the night had fallen soundly, and the stars were remote in the hazy sky. Clouds were welling in the eastern sky, blacker areas above the dark heads of the trees. Frodo pulled his cloak around his shoulders, and then reached into the smial for an umbrella. Then he closed and locked the door, heading down the Hill toward Bywater. He passed the Green Dragon Inn, for there was so many hobbits crowded inside that they spilled out into the night. He decided to press on toward Bywater and see if the Ivy Bush was perhaps less busy this night.

Of course, Frodo had been in the Ivy Bush many times, with his uncle. They were always welcomed loudly and often the center of attention- Bilbo was, at any rate. Frodo usually kept quiet, listening and bringing drinks for them and whoever was sitting with them at their table. Bilbo was generous and popular, a colourful figure in his embroidered waistcoats and silk scarves tucked around his neck. Frodo liked to watch those who harkened to his tales, exclaiming loudly their disbelief but listening hard and eagerly repeating all they heard.

This inn was also noisy and crowded, light and gales of laughter spilling from the windows open in spite of the chill air. Frodo stepped into the doorway and immediately removed his cloak. It was warm inside with the fires and all the hobbits packed in like sausages. All the tables were filled, so that Frodo had to weave his way inside to find a place to stand next to the bar. He waited patiently for the overworked 'tender to catch his eye and bring him half a pint of ale. He spotted an empty seat near the window and waded toward it with his drink. There was an over-grown hanging plant screening him from the rest of the room, but he did not care. He gratefully breathed the fresh air coming through the window and sipped his ale. Then he heard a voice that he recognized, coming from behind the plant.

"A very nice well-spoken gentlehobbit is Mr. Bilbo Baggins, as I've always said," Gaffer Gamgee was declaring. He was sitting with Daddy Twofoot and a couple of other hobbits that Frodo could not see because of the foliage. But because of that great plant, none of them could see him at all. He heard Ol' Noaks asking about him, as if he hadn't seen Frodo almost every day since he moved to Hobbiton nearly twelve years ago. They were holding court with a half dozen other hobbits Frodo did not recognize immediately, and countless others eavesdropping (not unlike himself). Frodo felt a little thrill at his clandestine behaviour. He continued to listen, smothering his laughter behind his hand.

They were carrying on about the oddity of Bilbo's habits and the reputation of the family Brandybuck, with the Gaffer defending the Bagginses loyally and loudly. Frodo's mirth faded as he heard Holman talk about his parents, pity for Frodo in his voice.

Frodo did not feel as though he deserved any pity, and hearing the casual conversation about his parents drowning made the ale sit like a stone in his stomach. He was about to rise and exit quietly when he heard the Miller's voice commenting, "I heard that she pushed him in, and he pulled her in after him!"

Frodo was outraged. He dropped his mug of ale, spilling what was left across the small table. A hobbit-lass in an apron appeared with a towel and began to wipe up the spill. "Are you all right, sir? Can I bring you another ale?" She noticed Frodo's reddened cheeks and smiled, "Perhaps you've had enough for the night..."

"Yes, another ale, please," he said with a slight cough. He handed her a small coin and sat down again. The Gaffer was giving Sandyman a piece of his mind, and Frodo felt his ire fade quickly. They talked on about Bilbo and his legendary treasure, and soon Frodo was chuckling softly at their foolishness. Tunnels stuffed with jewels? For such stay-at-home and un-adventurous folks, the flights of hobbit fancy seemed to have no limit.

The Gaffer eventually got tired of Sandyman's talk and rose to leave. He had not convinced his audience, but he had made his point, and he walked out proudly amid the snickering of the other hobbits. Frodo ordered a third drink and sat back, watching the hobbits begin to head home one by one, now that the chief source of interesting news had departed.

The core of the Gaffer's audience had remained to continue to discuss 'Mad Baggins' and his Brandybuck relations. Their talk rapidly grew tiresome; nonsense not worth listening to at all. Frodo pushed back from the table and made to rise, when a dwarf stepped into the inn, causing all talk to cease suddenly.

The Dwarf paid no mind whatever, but merely walked straight to the bar and asked for a pint of beer. The 'tender handed him a stein, for it was not uncommon for Outsiders to stop at the Inns along the road, and they kept larger sized mugs on hand just for them. The Dwarf drained it in one draught and asked for another and a meal, if there was ought to be had at so late an hour. Then he turned and cast a look around the inside of the tavern.

Frodo leaned out and caught his eye, inviting him without words to join him at his small table. The Dwarf saluted him and came across the room, his boots clunking heavily on the sawdust-covered floor. The Miller and his cronies rose and departed abruptly, as if drinking in the same room with a Dwarf was beneath their dignity.

The Dwarf ignored them. He swept off his hood and bowed low to Frodo. " Nárin is my name," he declared, seating himself. The chair creaked a little under his weight.

Frodo rose and bowed deeply, saying "Frodo Baggins is my name, and I am at your service and your family's."

The Dwarf's eyebrows rose in response to Frodo's polite and correct behaviour. "You have had some dealings with Dwarves." He sounded surprised.

Frodo smiled. "A little. My uncle knows many dwarves from the Lonely Mountain. Occasionally they come to visit the Hill, on their way westward to the Blue Mountains. I wish that my uncle was here tonight. He would welcome the chance to visit with you. Perhaps you can give me some small news of the Outside, sir, though I can repay you only with listening, as I doubt that the doings of Hobbiton and the Shire are of interest to anyone but a Hobbit."

"This is a fortuitous meeting, sir," said Nárin, "for I am come in search of a Master Baggins. Could this uncle of yours be the very same Baggins that assisted Daín in becoming King under the Mountain?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose one could say he did that," mused Frodo, "though he was actually assisting Lord Thorin Oakenshield to reclaim his birthright."

"Helped him get rid of ol' Smaug," Nárin said with a smile, raising his mug in a now-common Dwarvish toast: "'Death to the Dragon'!"

Frodo tapped his mug against Nárin's. He was pleased to find someone to talk to that did not think his uncle was peculiar or cracked. He waved to the bartender to send more ale for himself and his companion, but Nárin insisted on paying for the drinks. "You can buy the next round, Mr. Baggins."

And so they talked of the news of the Blue Mountains. Nárin stated that his family resided there in great honour, and described in length the beauty of the halls and the forges. He told also of some rumours he had heard from the south, vague tales of darkness and fear. Dwarves having less interest than hobbits in the doings of Men and such, Frodo did not learn much from him that he had not already heard from Bilbo.

As Nárin's talk turned to the more distant lands to the East, Erebor and Dale, Frodo took the opportunity when the Dwarf paused to take a drink to ask him if he had heard ought of Lord Balin.

Nárin set down his mug and was silent. "What do you know of him?" he asked after looking hard at Frodo for a long moment.

"I have heard nothing of him since he was last in the Shire, some years ago. He came to visit my uncle. I had just moved to Hobbiton and had been ill for a while. I remember that he was kind and friendly, and very cheerful. Bilbo never told me where he was going... I had assumed that he was bound for Erebor again. He would hardly have discussed his business with a child." Frodo was a little taken a-back by the fervor of the Dwarf's regard. He began to wonder if he had spoken loosely when he should have remained silent. He looked into his near empty mug and decided he had drunk enough ale for one night.

Nárin said nothing more of Balin, turning the conversation abruptly to the local pipeweed crop, which he said that he had heard from somewhere had been unusually good this year. Frodo shared out of his own pouch, grateful to have a 'safe' subject to talk about again.

The night was drawing in and Frodo rose to bid Nárin good night, but the Dwarf entreated him to stay for a moment more. Frodo agreed, ordering a cup of strong tea instead of ale. The smoke and drink was starting to make him comfortably drowsy, and there was a long walk up the Hill to home to look forward to.

"What more do you wish to speak of, good Nárin?" Frodo heard himself say, suppressing a yawn.

"I do have some business in the south, business on which I cannot elabourate until we are in a more private setting." Nárin was almost whispering. Frodo had to lean close to catch his words: "It involves some mystery and a little danger. I came here hoping to find the famous burglar, to contract him for employment."

Frodo blinked. "Bilbo? Well, I suppose there's no harm in asking, but I am sure he won't be available. He is retired, you see."

"Well, what about you?" Nárin said, setting a full pint next to Frodo's teacup. "Surely your uncle has taught you some of the tricks of the trade? Would you like to go on an adventure and become as famous as your uncle... and as rich?"

Frodo felt a tickle of nervousness in his belly. This whole conversation had begun to smell fishy to him... that or he was becoming ill from the thick pipe smoke.

He rose unsteadily to his feet. "I am afraid you are mistaken, sir. I am not in the trade. Good night to you." Frodo offered a short bow and left a coin on the table for the service. He walked out of the inn into the chilly night with his cloak over his arm, so eager was he to get gone from the strange dwarf. He headed for home, wrapping his cloak around him hastily.

Halfway down the Bywater Road Frodo looked up at the storm clouds that had gathered as the evening had worn on, realizing he had left his umbrella behind at the inn. If he returned to fetch it, he would end up using it for sure, but if he hastened home perhaps he could beat the weather. He went on toward home, pushing his luck mostly because he had no desire to see the Dwarf Nárin again.

**II**

**Eavesdropping**

High above the valley of the Water rose the Hill. The road snaked away from the bridge to the right, passed the mill and then wove between the holes and houses of Hobbiton before climbing up to meet the path from the green door.

Occasional drops of fat rain were thumping on Frodo's hood as he crossed the bridge, so he decided to go left and cut through the field rather than walk through town. It was dark, but no one knew the ways of Hobbiton and the Hill in the dark better than Frodo Baggins. He loved to walk at night and he knew every inch of his home soil... even blindfolded he could find his way.

The light rain ceased and the wind died to a whimper. Frodo dashed along the hedgerow, feeling that the weather had given him a reprieve. There was a low place along the row, and here the agile young hobbit leaped over and landed on the thick grass, making not a sound. He turned to the left again around the boggy sink-hole and then up a steep slope, and as he walked he recalled his nervousness and fear in the Ivy Bush, and he felt a little ashamed.

Frodo supposed he must have sounded quite rude to the Dwarf, but it had been such a surprise, when Nárin had asked him to go away on an Adventure, as if he were the burglar instead of Bilbo. Frodo could not deny he felt a little flattered, and now that he was outside the pipe smoke and the close heat, the offer sounded rather interesting. Could he be the burglar his uncle had been, full of wits and resources enough to outsmart a dragon? Courageous enough to face giant spiders in Mirkwood or even goblins in the mountains?

Frodo laughed at himself. He knew he could never be the hobbit his uncle was, even if dreaming could somehow make things real. He thought of himself as just a simple hobbit who loved to read and talk to elves and other than that, he was quite unremarkable.

Ahead there was a darker darkness rising across Frodo's path, a ring of pine trees that looked like an impenetrable wall in the night that cut off the field from the lower pasture. Frodo knew where the branches parted and he ducked inside to shorten his walk, but he halted abruptly as he heard voices ahead. Someone was inside the pine trees. He could hear them talking:

"... Sittin' comfortable inside the inn, drinking Shire ale and eating a hot meal, he is, while we sit out here in the cold with no fire! This is not my idea of fair circumstances! Why couldn't we wait in the inn, too?"

"We can't afford to be seen, Bolg, as well you know! We can't be heard neither, so keep your voice down," said a second voice, whispering harshly but just as loudly as the other had spoken. Frodo could hear them clearly, though it was too dark to see even shapes beneath the trees. He stood perfectly still and listened. He could hear them moving slightly, shifting their boots or the rustling of stiff, wiry hair. They must be Dwarves, Frodo thought suddenly. Dwarves hiding in a shelterbelt in the middle of Hobbiton!

"Well, if ye ask me, Nárin's wastin' his time trying to hire one o' these Shire-sheep! What are they for, anyway?" The first voice said again.

"For one thing, they are quiet!" his companion answered, with more than a touch of irritation.

"Ease off, Tiege! Nobody is 'round to hear us. But I'd be obliged if ye'd come to explain to me, why do we need a sneak-thief for this job at all?"

"We don't! What's the purpose of having a thief when we can just walk in through the East Door? It's the little fellow's relationship with Balin that we need. He's got a crowd of his own kinfolk there working all those mines for ore and gems, and he's no need or want for more hands, especially from a lot of drifters like us. But with Baggins with us, he'll let us in and with welcome! We'll never see the true-silver lode without him." Frodo could hear greed naked in their speech.

"So it has to be Baggins, eh? Would be easier if we could just take along any hobbit. I've a bag big enough!" Rusty laughter answered this jest, and Frodo realized there were more dwarves lurking than just the two talkative ones.

"It has got to be Baggins, or one of his kin. Debt to the family, and all that. And he won't be much help if he's not willing."

"If he isn't willing, we've a few hundred leagues to talk him into it!" More laughter and movement. The clouds drifting overhead broke a fraction to allow some little light from the gibbous moon through, and Frodo saw a few stocky shapes in the darkness. He shrank down lest they espy him as well. He knew that dwarves had very good sight in the dark.

Frodo did not know what to do. He had no idea what the dwarves were talking about, except that it involved Balin, his uncle's friend Dwarf, and that it all sounded very wrong. He felt he must get home quickly, wake his uncle and tell him all of this incredible tale, but he dared not to move lest the strange dwarves hear him and use their bag to catch him.

It all seemed too fantastic! All the Dwarves that Frodo had met before this night had been honourable and decent folk. They were sometimes coarse and gruff, but you could trust them and there was no need to fear, at least when Bilbo was there. But Bilbo was not here, and these Dwarves were not like Balin or Ori or Oín. It all seemed so strange that the whole situation felt like an odd dream.

Frodo waited, beginning to shiver a little as the cold crept into his bones. The ground was damp from the intermittent rain, and the lagging wind was beginning to blow again. The rift in the clouds healed itself and the night grew dark again.

Frodo was considering creeping out of the trees and trying to get around them when he heard heavy footsteps coming behind. Someone was pushing through the intertwined branches of pine, some feet away from Frodo's position, grumbling as his beard and clothing caught on the rough bark and needles. He recognized Nárin's voice cursing. He quickly thought that he could escape under the cover of all the noise the dwarf was making, but his curiosity kept him rooted in place. These dwarves had plans for his uncle, and Frodo did not like what he had heard. He wanted to learn more before going to Bilbo with this news.

⌂

Nárin was not pleased. "Don't you lot know how to be quiet? I could hear your gabbing all the way down the field. You're lucky the rain is keeping the hobbits inside their tunnels, or we would have the whole town down on our heads!"

"We're freezing to death out here," said Bolg, sounding a little contrite. "Did you learn where we can find this Baggins fellow? How much longer do we have to stay hidden?"

"Until I say otherwise! I found out what I needed to know. He lives on top of this big hill, just as I thought. I met his nephew in the inn; a frail, skittish little fellow. But he will do for the role, or would... if he wasn't such a coward. After meeting him, I am hoping that Baggins himself will come along. He's bound to be getting on in years; maybe he'll fancy a little easy gold to make his later years even more comfortable, eh?"

"Can we go down to the inn for the night? I can't feel my toes anymore, I am so cold," complained Bolg. The others muttered.

"No! You stay here and I'll call on Baggins first thing in the morning. You can endure it; you are a dwarf, are you not?"

"I am, but that doesn't mean I don't like warm feet," muttered Bolg, and Teige chuckled softly. Nárin shushed them.

"I'm going back to the inn. I've taken a room there and it will look strange if I don't go back. Wait here and stay hidden until I come. Be ready to move at a moment's notice. If he won't come willing or he's too dotard to be of use, we can 'enlist' his nephew for the project."

"What if he won't? You said he was too scared."

"He'll be more scared not to help, when I get through with him! We've earned the right to the spoils of Khazad-dum. Our fathers and uncles died fighting orcs with Náin and Thráin and Thorin. No reward or weregild were they paid for their duty to Náin other than the right to bury their own dead. Now we will claim that reward that was lacking, and take it as it should have been given, were the folk of Durin more honourable."

Frodo couldn't wait any longer. He was afraid and cold, and the words of the dwarves confused him. He very slowly crawled out of the trees, stood up and tip-toed around the grove, careful to make absolutely no noise at all. He tried not to forget the names he had heard, all dwarvish and strange inside his head.

In the distance, a dog began to bark. Frodo started violently and took off at a run, leaping up the grassy slope like a goat, no longer caring if he was heard or seen. He reached the road and scrambled over the rear gate of the garden, dropping to the ground under the hedge, where he sat panting and trying to gather his wits.

Once inside the garden, Frodo's fear ebbed. He breathed deeply the fragrant air, grateful of the soft soil and grass under him. He was safe now. He was home.

**III**

**Almost Abducted**

The sky finally loosened and the rain began in earnest. Frodo did not move. He sat under the hedge and let the water drip on his head. His clothes were already soaked and muddy. He still felt stunned by what he had seen and heard this night, and he needed a moment to collect himself before going inside and talking to Bilbo.

He rehearsed the tale to himself in a soft voice, and it sounded strange and unbelievable even to him. Had he over-reacted to Nárin's offer? Yet the conversation he had overheard in the pines proved to him that the Dwarves were up to some wickedness, even if they felt justified by whatever debt they believed was owed to them. Frodo and Bilbo did not owe it to them. Frodo had learned enough about Dwarves to know that they took matters involving family debts and honour very seriously, and their memories were longer than even their considerably long lifetimes.

But who had ever heard of a wicked Dwarf? That part did not make sense to Frodo. Dwarves were good, noble, and honest; and when they couldn't be forthright, they were stubbornly silent. They did not abduct people or steal. The very idea went against all Frodo had learned from Bilbo about the character of Dwarves.

Still, Frodo knew hobbits who acted in odd ways, seeking wealth while taking no pleasure in what was earned, their appetites never sated no matter how much they acquired... Otho and Lobelia's obsession with Bag End came to his mind, and their thinly veiled 'concern' about his health, all the while waiting for him to die...

Frodo blinked and shivered. His mind ran away from that thought. "Bilbo will never die!" he said rebelliously. Though he knew that it was not true, all the same he felt a little better saying it aloud.

Well, even if he could make no sense of what he had witnessed that night, Bilbo must hear it, so Frodo stood up and headed toward Bag End's front door, as his key would not open the kitchen entrance. He wiped his eyes on with a soggy sleeve, then picked up the edge of his cloak, wringing water from it as he walked.

He made it as far as the path before several shapes sprang upon him. A coarse, smelly fabric bag was tossed over his head, muffling his surprised outcry. He felt himself lifted; even though he kicked with all his strength, his captor did not release him. He was slung around dizzyingly, then suddenly his wind was knocked from him as he was thrown up over a hard shoulder; it was like a knee in the gut. He gasped and struggled not to become sick.

He landed hard on his back, after only what seemed an instant later. Stars danced in his eyes, inside the darkness of the burlap bag. He heard cries of pain and curses all around him, and footsteps running and fading away. Also he could hear a thin, piping cry, like a bird or some stranger creature shrieking nearby. When he could move he searched his pockets for the quill-knife he hoped he still had. His hands shook so hard he could barely get it unsheathed but managed to cut through the tough fiber of the sack with the small sharp blade. He gulped the fresh air gratefully, ignoring the rain dripping into his eyes.

Of Frodo's attempted abductors there was no sign, except the booted foot-prints in the soft mud, slowly being erased by the steady rain. Frodo kicked the bag off of his feet and inventoried himself for injuries. He had a small bump on the back of his head and one of his legs was numb as if it had fallen asleep. He stood up carefully and limped to the door, hoping that he had not dropped his key in the mud.

The door opened before he reached it, and Bilbo peered out, holding high a lamp that spilled bright light from his hand. He took one look at his bedraggled, rain-soaked nephew and said, "Coming in a little late, aren't we, Frodo-lad?"

Frodo couldn't help himself; he started to laugh. Bilbo's eyebrows scaled up his forehead. "And a batch of new ale in you, too, eh? We'll, come inside! You can't get any wetter, so stop trying!"

Frodo stepped inside, feeling that he had never until this moment been truly grateful to hear the front door of Bag End close and lock behind him. He peeled off his cloak. It was dripping wet and covered with mud and leaves. "I am sorry, uncle," he heard himself saying. "I don't mean to makes such a mess..."

"Never mind, Frodo!" Bilbo answered, taking the wet garment from his hands. "Do you think I've never come home after the cows? Just go get yourself dried off, lad. You'll catch your death standing around in wet clothes!"

"But it's not that, sir..." Frodo began to explain, but Bilbo took his elbow and steered him toward the washroom.

"It's all right, Frodo," Bilbo repeated. "You have the right to make merry all you wish. I for one am glad to see you relax a little. You are too serious, sometimes. However," he added gently, "I think you might have been wiser to take a room at the inn than wander home in the rain. Why didn't you take an umbrella?"

"I did! I left it..." Frodo started to say, but could not finish because Bilbo had pulled his tunic over his head, to help him with the heavy, sticky cloth but effectively silencing his excuses.

"You can do the rest yourself now, Frodo. I will make some tea to help you get warmed up. You can tell me then whatever it is you feel that you need to say."

"But, I..."

Frodo was left alone in the washroom, staring at the door his uncle had closed behind him, his protests dying on his lips. A cold feeling that had nothing to do with his dripping hair and soggy clothes had taken hold in his stomach.

A thought came to assail Frodo: Bilbo would not believe him! He would think his nephew had drunk too much ale and his active imagination had taken him on an Adventure inside his head!

He did not want to look a fool in front of Bilbo, especially not mere weeks before The Party, the day Frodo would officially become an adult. What would he say to Bilbo? He could say that he had not drank a lot of ale, but that would be a lie- Frodo had drank enough- and had stopped when he felt it. Had he not stopped soon enough? He had met a strange dwarf, and Hanson the bartender at the Ivy Bush could tell Bilbo that much was true, but not what was said. And no one could corroborate what Frodo had heard and seen in the fields below the pines in the rain.

Frodo stripped off the rest of his clothes, depression settling heavier than his aching head. He would have a bruise to keep him company for a while, hidden neatly beneath his thick hair. His leg was still numb, but was beginning to 'wake-up', tingling almost painfully. He filled a basin with unheated water and dunked his head into it. It felt almost warm against his icy skin.

Frodo wrapped his bathrobe tightly around him. He felt cold indeed now, and sick and foolish and tired. He emptied the basin and refilled it with warmed water, setting his soiled clothes to soak. He ran a comb though his hair until it ceased to drip.

He then carefully washed his clothes and hung them to dry. He felt reluctant to come out of the washroom, to face his uncle's doubt and possibly disappointment. Standing with his hand on the door and trying to force himself to open it and step out, Frodo knew, at last, some measure of what Bilbo must have felt, facing Smaug the Dragon alone in the dark.

Frodo knew Bilbo was no dragon and foolish as he might look, he had to tell his uncle what had happened, whatever Bilbo may think of him afterwards.

He sighed and turned the knob. "It would be nice, right now," thought Frodo as he opened the door, "to be able to become invisible."

Frodo stepped into the kitchen. The whole room was blazing with warmth, and there was an early breakfast as well as hot tea on the board. Bilbo nodded at his nephew, hesitating in the doorway. "Sit down, Frodo, and have a bite. You look peaked, and then you can tell me what has been going on."

"I'm sorry," was all Frodo could think of to say. As good as the food looked, Frodo was not hungry. His stomach was knotted. He knew he'd have to get the story off of his chest first or he would make himself ill.

Cradling the warm cup, Frodo began his tale, telling of what he had seen and heard in the Ivy Bush earlier that evening. Details he had not recalled came to him as he spoke. Bilbo listened and did not interrupt again. He moved only to keep Frodo's cup filled with tea, and said nothing other than offering a gentle protest when he heard what the miller had said about Frodo's parents.

When Frodo described Nárin the Dwarf, Bilbo's face creased with a frown that did not fade away quickly. His hand wandered to this waistcoat pocket, and Frodo suddenly realized that his uncle was fully dressed and had been so when he had opened the door to let Frodo in. "You haven't been to sleep, uncle?" Frodo spoke his observation aloud.

Bilbo's frown softened as he smiled at Frodo. "I had intended to, and I got perhaps a good hour of rest before the doorbell rang... but this is not my tale. Continue with yours, dear boy. One story at a time!"

Dutifully, Frodo relayed Nárin's proposition, and as he spoke he again felt that surge of desire to wander and seek adventure, his feet itching for the feel of the road and his ears to hear songs in strange tongues, sung to alien music. He sounded almost wistful as he admitted he had rejected of the offer.

"And I left your umbrella at the Ivy Bush," Frodo said with his head bowed over his cup. He glanced upward with that blue, penitent look of his, that 'look' which had, in his childhood, made it impossible for his elders to punish him. He offered a wry grin.

Bilbo laughed and tousled his hair affectionately. "Never mind, Frodo, my boy; we'll fetch it later. What happened next?"

Darkness, rain, bridges and shortcuts; Frodo told what he had heard, and what he had thought he had seen, in the pitch-black shadows under the pines. Here his tale began to sound uncertain, as his own doubts surfaced in his recollections. The names he had heard sounded incorrect on his tongue, and his telling broke off when he recalled his panic. "If it hadn't been for that stupid dog..." Frodo muttered darkly. "They must have heard it and seen me running. I thought I was safe once I reached the garden, but they were waiting for me. I have no idea how they were driven away. I am glad they were! I was also glad to see you after. I had feared they would come and... take you away." _And I am still afraid_, Frodo thought, though he could not say this aloud. He became intensely interested in a small flaw on the rim of his teacup.

Bilbo sighed. Frodo glanced up to watch him; his tale now told, he waited to hear what Bilbo would say. He seemed to believe him, or at least he had been interested enough to listen to the whole tale. The silence in the kitchen seemed deafening. Frodo looked at the cold meal and felt his dormant appetite begin to stir. He waited.

Bilbo stood up and wandered to the kitchen window, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked out, even though the night was still dark and the rain spitting against the glazed panes with a musical tinkling. He seemed very far away suddenly, and Frodo knew that soon he would, in fact, be very far away.

"Uncle," the words were out of his mouth before Frodo could halt them, "You will be careful, won't you, when you go on your Adventure? I could still go with you, if you want me to."

Bilbo bowed his head. His back was to Frodo, but the younger hobbit could see his uncle's face reflected in the glass. There were tears in his eyes that he did not want his nephew to see. Frodo obediently glanced away, blinking to clear his own eyes.

"It wasn't this hard... before," said Bilbo at last. Frodo's head jerked up. They had remained silent for so long that Frodo had begun to drowse in the heat of the kitchen hearth. He felt frayed and frazzled, and all his bruises were singing softly on his skin.

Bilbo turned from the window, the sparkle was back in his eyes. He urged Frodo to eat something, "Your face is as grey as a February sky!" he said.

Frodo picked up a piece of toast. "What do you mean, uncle? What wasn't hard before?"

"When I left Bag End all those years ago. I ran off without a look back—an impulsive decision and one I soon regretted, even if most things turned out well in the end. This time, I am planning everything and it is much more difficult. It is harder now because I have a better reason to stay here than I had forty-eight years ago.

"It is the right thing to do, my going away... you see that, don't you, lad? I want to do it, so much so that I can think of and dream of nothing else. This place is lovely, but there is other beauty to see, other people to know. I have out-lived everyone... buried more friends and relations than any hobbit should have to. This has become a place of ghosts for me." Bilbo's face looked so grey and sad that Frodo placed a pale hand gently over his uncle's weathered one. Bilbo patted it gently, smiling at him.

"You are more like me, as I was then, than I am myself, now. And yet, you are so much more. You are going to be all right."

"Bilbo," Frodo said softly. His cheeks were wet with tears, and he felt a tearing inside his heart; to stay and be what his uncle wanted him to be- what Frodo wanted to be- and to cast away everything and take the hidden paths that he had heard of so often.

"Not yet," Bilbo said, as if he could hear Frodo's thoughts. Perhaps he just remembered his own thoughts, that day in spring when he had harkened the singing of the Dwarves and the desire for Adventure had awakened in his heart. "It is the right thing for you to do; stay here. Live happily in the Shire. That is what I want you to do for me."

"I want that, also, Bilbo, but I want you to stay, too."

"Well, we can't have everything we want, all at once," Bilbo responded cheerfully, "That would take all the fun out of life!"

**V**

**Bilbo's Tale**

"You're tired, Frodo," Bilbo said, after they had finally consumed their neglected meal. Frodo was blinking into his teacup, his eyes looking bruised from lack of rest. "Why don't you go to bed and we'll talk more in the morning."

Frodo stifled a yawn. "I think it is already morning. But how can I sleep with what is going on? What is to keep these villains from returning? You... you _**do**_ believe me, don't you, sir?"

Bilbo hastened to reassure him. "Of course I do! I heard a scuffle outside, I opened the door to see you roughed up most distressingly... I admit, at first I thought that you had tipped a few too many, but I could tell by your manner that something was wrong. Also, I have a tale of my own to tell, but it is nothing that won't wait until later. I promise you that we are not in any more danger."

"I believe you, uncle, but I can't help wondering how you know this. Should we alert the shiriffs? But what can they do... they are shepherds and messengers merely, not soldiers." Frodo rubbed his eyes. There was no way he could relax and sleep at a time like this.

Bilbo saw this and he nodded, moving to fill the kettle again. This would require at least one more cup of tea, or coffee rather, if he had any beans left. That would be just the thing to perk the lad up enough to hear something to quiet his anxiety.

Frodo cleared the table and tried not to peer out of the window every few moments. He felt that he was being watched somehow. He longed to draw the curtains and yet wanted to see out, for the sun to rise and show that he garden was not full of dark, suspicious figures lurking with ill-intent. He had to restrain himself from checking to make sure the doors were locked; he knew that they were.

They settled down again at the table, and Frodo's eyes were on his uncle's face. Bilbo was considering what he would tell Frodo. "You remember that day when we drove from Buckland to Hobbiton, that first day I brought you to live here in Bag End with me?"

"I remember it vividly, Bilbo. I was one of the best days of my life."

Bilbo smiled fondly at him. "One of mine as well, my lad. I remember that I said to you that we should have no secrets between us, though that conversation took place some time later. But I recall both moments now, for I fear that I have a bit of a confession to make to you, and yet I cannot reveal all things to you, even now. I will tell you a little and then ask you to trust me."

Frodo said nothing. He remembered that day, too. When they had made that promise to each other, Frodo had known that it did not mean that they should never have any secrets- certainly Frodo had some that he saw no need to trouble his uncle with, little things that a young hobbit did that would be embarrassing to repeat. He knew his uncle had business that he did not elabourate about, and Frodo respected that. It thrilled him to know that he might learn a little more, now. He felt the need as he never had before, to know what was going on, to alleviate this feeling of helplessness and fear.

Bilbo waited until Frodo had time to digest this, then he went on. "That day we camped in the Woody End and you fell asleep with that angelic smile on your face, I stayed awake and spoke to some visitors that came by later. Elves, of course; I was expecting them. They were bringing me a message from an old friend, and I was glad to hear it. They were pleased with you; they told me that I had chosen well. As if I had been to market and bought a prize cow!" Bilbo laughed. "Elves have such strange senses of humour!" Frodo laughed a little. He had often said as much himself.

"On that night I spoke to an Elf that has often returned to me with other messages, over the years. Earlier tonight after you had gone out, he came by Bag End, tapping on the window like a thrush on a rock."

That woke Frodo up. "An Elf, in Hobbiton?" he said, incredulous.

"Yes! I was just as surprised. I had not expected to see him again until after... well, until I was on the road again. But he had tidings of some import and would not wait. Among the things he relayed to me, he spoke of a warning that came from Dwalin. It seemed that a group of wandering dwarves had passed through the Blue Mountains, seeking others to join a party that was setting out to claim an ancient debt owed to their families... and this is something I cannot go into detail about, lad. Forgive me, it is not that I don't trust you."

"It's all right, Bilbo. I trust you," Frodo said.

"Thank you, my boy. Anyway, these dwarves are apparently not very popular among the Dwarves who still dwell in the Ered Luin. These dwarves are not of Durin's Folk—let me make that clear! Who can say which families they truly belong to? They likely don't remember themselves. They made mention of 'acquiring a stealthful assistant' from the Shire, and word trickled down to Dwalin's ears. He, of course, thought instantly of me—bless his beard! –and sent a message with my Elven friend. So while you were talking to this Nárin at the Ivy Bush, I was hearing that I should be very skeptical and cautious about 'employment opportunities'. It never occurred to me that they would accost you, lad. I should have sent for you the moment I learned of this plot, if I had suspected that you were in any danger."

"I understand, uncle. How could you know? You and I, we don't think like villains; how can we predict them?"

"An excellent point! At any rate, when you came down the path and was attacked, I was in the kitchen talking to my friend, and he heard the disturbance before I did. He leaped up, nearly cracking his head on the ceiling, and said, _'Fäeorn!'_, and then dashed out the kitchen door, telling me to lock it and wait for him to return. I did this, hearing then the sounds of struggling outside. I ran to the front door, for I did not lock it after I let the Elf inside, and I heard someone coming up the walk. I opened the door and there you were... you really did look a mess, lad. Forgive me for thinking you were tipsy. I was just relieved that you were all right." Bilbo poured more coffee into Frodo's cup. "The Elf came back in while you were in the washroom. He told me that the dwarves had been... taken care of. There is no more need to fear them."

"What does _fäeorn_ mean? I am not familiar with that word. Is it Elvish?"

"My friend refused to elabourate. But he did tell me that we ought to leave a large bowl of sweet cream outside the back door every night from now on. He said only, 'They have earned a reward this night.' A typically cryptic Elvish statement, and one I mean to bring up next time our paths cross, I assure you!" Bilbo smiled and sighed. "He insisted on leaving immediately, but assured me that Bag End would be watched and that you would be kept safe. I could never set a foot out of here without knowing that you would be looked after."

Frodo looked at Bilbo with wonder in his face. "Well, I'll be blessed..." he said softly. "It really is all over? Bilbo, this whole night seems like a strange dream, but I am so tired; I know I haven't been asleep! I should have trusted that you would be on top of things, and that I could trust you to believe me. I almost did not believe myself!"

"Forget about it, lad! It is all over, and your cup is empty, so get you to bed and get some sleep. I will be doing exactly the same, as soon as I set your cloak in the washroom to dry." Bilbo bent and picked up the still-damp, muddy garment. He dropped it suddenly, "Ouch! What is this... did you fall into a briar-patch, too?" He shook his hand and flexed his fingers. "My whole hand has suddenly gone completely numb!"

Frodo took his cloak carefully in his hands and examined it. There were several long thorns stuck into the hem of the thick fabric. He pulled one out and held it up. It was as sharp as a needle, with a tiny barbed point and very delicately fletched with pinfeathers; a wee arrow no longer than Frodo's littlest finger.

Frodo looked at his uncle, who was staring at the thing and rubbing his hand. "This would be one of those things that your friend could not speak of? It would seem that not all mysteries are to be solved in one night of talk and tea."

⌂

Many miles away, just before dawn came and scattered the vestiges of the rain clouds, a group of Dunédain and one Elf were escorting a party of six dirty and very disgruntled Dwarves to the borders of the Shire.

Tirhen looked down with displeasure at them. He had had to restrain himself from exercising or voicing his ire on them. He was glad of the presence of the Dunédain; in front of them he would not act out his anger. He contented himself with an open glare at Nárin, who returned it without fear.

"Go you from these blessed lands, and return not! If you be not entirely faithless, swear an oath before me and the witness of these Men and your own people that you will never return here, nor seek again to harm those we protect!"

"And what will you do if I refuse?" Nárin asked. "Would you kill me, and my folk, just because we sought to gain what our fathers had forsaken? We would not have harmed Baggins or his heir."

"We would not and will not kill you, but without your oath we do not trust you. We are not the Enemy, to deal out imprisonment or death. We have no need of such devices. But I can and will cripple you, Dwarf. You will mine little ore without your hands or eyes. This is your choice: live free as a beggar or be bound by your words."

Nárin grumbled and tugged his beard. He knew that the Elf did not speak idly. "Very well. I so do swear by my father's name, N'bol, seventh Father of the Dwarves, that I will never enter the Shire's boundaries again." The Elf did not move or speak, but waited until the Dwarf continued. "Nor will I harm any that are therein protected! I swear it!" The Dwarves all echoed his words.

Tirhen nodded to the Dunédain, and the Dwarves were freed. "I have heard your words, Dwarves. And as the One has gifted me with life eternal, so too are your oaths spoken before me eternal. It shall be remembered until the End of Days, and if ever you or your descendents break this oath, swift death shall fall upon ye; from the air, from the waters, and from the earth. I swear this by Arien and Isil and the Stars born before Time."

The Dwarves went on their way, swiftly hurrying upon the road to the South, for they would not be welcome in the North again, when tales of this misadventure were spread to the Blue Mountains. They went to seek what adventure they could find without the aid of a burglar, and so Frodo and Bilbo were safe from them.

Tirhen thanked the Dunédain, who bowed and returned to their positions of watchfulness on the borders of the Shire. The Elf set out immediately for Mithlond. He had tidings to bear again, and he hoped that he would find Gildor there, returned from Imladris. He hoped to accomplish all his tasks and return swiftly. There was expected to be quite a party on the Hill soon, and he had an invitation.

_**Here ends this chapter of Heir of the Hill. Next chapter will begin a new tale, as Frodo Baggins comes of age and receives from his uncle his fateful inheritance and the title of **__**Master of the Hill**_


End file.
